


Kastytis

by kelex



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, hannigram AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter is a cop with a killer on the loose going after prostitutes. Rentboy Will Graham offers to be his eyes and ears on the street, and they work almost too well together. Eventually it’s hard to deny the reason why and soon neither wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kastytis

**Author's Note:**

> @slashyrogue came up with the AU, and she gave me permission to write it! @mycroft-silently-judges-you/VictoriaAGrey is a goddess. Lots of honorable mentions; the Lecter Twins, vague hints of Spacedogs, Mischa is alive!, and any similarities to other works, including Fullerverse, are totally intentional, yo. "Elephant Man" is a reference to Hannibal and his elephants crossing the Alps, and is meant totally affectionately. _Jurate and Kastytis_ is a real poem by Lithuanian poet Maironis, and can be found here: www.inspirationalstories.com/poems/jurate-and-kastytis-maironis-poems/

"Lecter!" When there was no response, "Lecter! Yo, Hannibal! Elephant Man!"

Hannibal folded his glasses with a sigh. While he sincerely disliked the nickname of _Elephant Man_ , it was most assuredly better than _Hanni_ or _Hannah Barbarian_ , both of which he'd picked up in his former squad. He had tried hard to see the nicknames as the obvious tokens of affection that they were, but he still disliked them. _Elephant Man_ was the least obnoxious of the group. "Yes?"

"You got a visitor. They're up interview two." Brian Zeller wiggled his eyebrows. "Stoppin' by before work, if you get my drift."

You'd have had to be a rock in the middle of a lake not to catch that drift. But, proclivity for innuendo aside, Zeller and his partner Jimmy Price were rather good officers who were paired up with him on the Ripper case. "Ah, thank you." Hannibal rose easily from the desk and made sure it was locked before tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket. "By the way, has the most recent autopsy report been filed yet?" He'd asked that morning about it, but nobody seemed to know. A call to the ME was in order, he just hadn't found time to do it yet. 

"Uh, dunno. Want me to call the ME's assistant?" Zeller seemed to be on a first-name basis with a multitude of low-level workers in every city and county office. It made him an invaluable resource when it came to finding things out. 

"If you don't mind, that would be a great help." Doctor Bloom was more than competent; she was a stellar ME, but she really disliked it when people nagged her for something. Better Jimmy sweet-talk one of the techs instead. 

"No prob, big guy." 

Hannibal nodded his appreciation one last time, and made his way towards the bullpen exit. It still took some getting used to; the promotion, the new badge, the transfer. He'd been a full Detective for almost two years now, out of Vice and into Violent Crimes. But it still felt strange. 

Interview 2 had become Hannibal's favorite interview room, for no particular reason other than he liked the window. It faced out the front of the building instead of the rear, and actually had a decent view of a few tree limbs. He opened the door, apologizing as he came in. "I'm sorry, I was--Frederick!"

Frederick was Frederick Chilton, Hannibal's former partner in Vice, where he was known as simply Fast Freddie. Because the man could _talk._ As in, talk your ears off. And he could see why Zeller had made his jokes; Fast Freddie was dressed in what Hannibal could only describe as full-on lounge lizard style, and he couldn't quell the quirking of his lips. 

Chilton had his feet propped up on the interview table, but when Hannibal came in, he stood up and held out a hand. "Hannibal, how are you?" His attitude was prim, almost formal, which is why he and Hannibal had gotten along. Despite his outward appearance, Chilton was fastidious to the nth degree. He'd had to go vegetarian after an on-the-job incident caused him to lose a kidney, about a foot of intestine, and several other organs to a perp's rusty knife, and he had a strict no-pets rule. 

Neither man moved to embrace the other, because neither one would have done so, ever. "I'm doing quite well, as well as possible that is." He waved a hand for Frederick to sit back down, and Hannibal sat across from him at the table. 

"Stuck you with the Ripper, didn't they?" Freddie perched on the edge of his chair, elbows on the table.

"Yes, they did." The Ripper case was the most urgent case the department was looking into right now. Special Victims as well as Violent Crime were looking into it, and he wasn't at all surprised that Vice was getting in on it as well. Seven prostitutes; three male, four female, had all been murdered and mutilated, tattoos removed as keepsakes. "What do you know?"

Chilton shook his head. "Not much more than anyone else at this point; we've been kept in the loop, seen all the files, read all the autopsy notes." He reached into the pocket of the garish black and silver bowling shirt he was wearing, and held out a piece of paper between two fingers. "I'm just here to give you an early Christmas present."

Hannibal took the folded slip and opened it. There was a cell phone number written there, along with--"Graham Cracker? Frederick, what is this?"

"That, my friend, is the name and number of one of my CIs. He's willing to chat with you and Hannibal, I'd take him up on it. He's willing to talk, and that's really not something you run into these days."

He nodded in understand; Graham Cracker was a prostitute, and a male one judging by the pronouns. Chilton was right, insofar as he'd been unable to get any of the street prostitutes to open up or say anything beyond the basics. 

At first, it'd been fear of the cops--no hooker worth their hourly rate was going to be known as a narc. Then later, it'd been fear of being targeted; they didn't want to put themselves in harm's way by letting the killer know they're friendly with the police. "He know I'm calling?"

"Yep. Told him you would be getting in contact with him. Leave him a message if he doesn't pick up, and uh." A serious look then. "Don't judge him too hard, okay? Graham's a good kid, and it'd probably be a really good thing if somebody who isn't undercover looked into helping him find a way out of the life he's in." 

Hannibal was intrigued; one of Fast Freddie's most well-known rules was _no getting involved in the lives of your informants. They're a means to an end, that's it._ "I see. I'll give him a call momentarily then."

Chilton looked at his watch; it was just after ten. "Give him a couple hours; he's usually not awake until after lunch." 

Of course. Late shift work meant sleeping in the morning hours. He got up from the table when Chilton did, and held out his hand. "Thank you for the information, and thank you for coming by." 

"Good luck, Hannibal." Chilton shook his hand, and departed. 

Hannibal remained in the interview room for a moment, committing the cell phone number and name to memory before destroying the little slip of paper Frederick had given him. Even in the best departments, sometimes walls had ears and information had ways of slipping out despite attempts to keep it secure. 

_-_-_

Will Graham cursed softly when his cell phone rang. He knocked it in the floor twice before he picked it up, and rolled over so that he wouldn't squash the dog currently sleeping on the other side of his bed. "Hello?" 

Hannibal swallowed hard. The voice on the other end of the phone was young, but it was heavy and thick with sleep. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I can call back later, if you like." 

Will pulled the phone away from his ear to look at both the caller ID and the time. It was two-fifteen in the afternoon, and he should've been up half an hour ago. "S'fine," he said through a jaw-cracking yawn. "You the detective Fast Freddie said he was gonna hook me up with?"

"Yes, I am, my name is Hannibal Lecter, and--"

"How about you meet me at the Riverlake Diner, on Seventh?" Will interrupted. "I need coffee and breakfast. Well, lunch, anyway, and they've got the best." He stretched and his shoulder popped, and he scratched a hand through his hair. "Say three?" That'd give him a chance to shower, change his clothes, and feed Winston before he left.

"Three would be fine." There was a scratch of pen on paper that was audible through the phone as Hannibal inked the meeting into his calendar. "I'm sorry, Mr.--"

"Graham. You don't have to call me Mister, though, call me Will. Graham Cracker's just a street name." 

More soft scratching as Hannibal wrote the name _Will Graham, 3:00 PM, Riverlake Diner_ "Frederick only gave me your street name, I apologize for that."

"It's the only one he knows, cause he's never asked and I haven't volunteered," Will replied bluntly. "He doesn't like getting involved, in case shit goes down and someone gets hurt. No attachments means no loose ends."

Even more intriguing was the fact that Hannibal knew Will was right. He hadn't been expecting that kind of insight, especially not just offered to him over the phone. "How will I recognize you?" Hannibal asked, as he realized he had no way of doing so. 

Will's amusement came over the line clear as day. "You're the cop, you figure it out. See you at three." He hung up in the detective's ear, and leaned back against Winston. "He sounded kinda cute, buddy." 

Winston had no opinion, simply offering Will a lick to the side of his face. Will laughed and snuggled the dog close for a long moment before getting up and heading to the shower. 

_-_-_

Hannibal arrived at the Riverlake Diner at precisely 3:00 PM. A bell over the door tinkled as he came in, and he took a moment to survey the interior. 

Done up to resemble a 1950s American diner, there was neon and pastels everywhere. A large Elvis statue posed by the coat rack, a Wurlitzer juke box sat near the back wall, and any other free wall space was covered with memorabilia from the time, such as movie posters, black and white photographs, framed magazine covers, even vinyl records. 

The long counter had nine barstools, and only two were taken. One by a teenage girl drinking a chocolate milkshake, the other by an elderly woman watching her fondly--grandmother, he assumed. The tables were red Formica with uncomfortable looking chairs, and the booths were shiny red plastic as well. The floor was black and white checker, and the waitresses were dressed like carhops. 

Most of the tables were empty, except for two, but since there was more than one person at each table, he assumed that was not who he was going to meet. 

Five of the ten booths were occupied, and it was to those he paid the most attention. Three of them had single occupants, and one was a woman, which left him with two possible candidates. 

Both were men of approximately the same age, anywhere from twenty to thirty. Both were smiling to themselves about something on their smartphones. One was a redhead, freckles and green eyes, dressed in teenage grunge fashion--torn and baggy jeans, beat-up sneakers, artistically rumpled hair, and a graffiti-covered t-shirt. 

The other was clean-shaven young brunette, with wavy hair that would be curly if it were grown longer. His face looked quite young, and yet, somehow promised that he knew exactly what you wanted and knew how to get it. Eyes were behind black-rimmed glasses, and when he looked up over the menu, they were the gray-blue of a summer storm cloud. He was dressed normally, and yet, somehow provocatively. He was wearing a plain white shirt, but the first two buttons were undone, and the sleeves were rolled up past the elbow. He was wearing a metallic watch, but no other jewelry that Hannibal could see. The jeans were well-fitted but not indecently tight, however they would accent his body when standing or leaning. The full package was meant to project an image, and that image? Handsome and available.

But it was the laugh which gave him away. One of the carhop waitresses came to the table to take his order, and whatever compliment she'd given him made him laugh. Her body language responded the laugher; she leaned in a little closer to him as she took his order, and her shoulders relaxed, inviting conversation. 

"Mister Graham?" Hannibal asked, as soon as he was standing by the table. 

_-_-_

When the bell on the door rang, Will looked up over the rim of his menu, and almost dropped it in the floor. Gorgeous did not even begin to describe the handsome specimen that had just come in. It _had_ to be the detective; there was a bulge in his right coat pocket where his badge would be, another small bulge would cover his gun. But the dark suit was well-tailored--a lot of money had gone into the outfit. 

The tie was tied in a crisp knot, and if he wasn't mistaken, the cop was wearing a damn vest--not the bulletproof kind, the three-piece suit kind--under the suit jacket. What the hell kind of detective dressed like a rich stockbroker? Granted, Sylvester Stallone had, but that was a whole different movie. He ducked his head when he noticed Lecter surveying the room, and he shot a quick text to Fast Freddie letting him know that Hannibal was there and they were getting ready to meet. 

He tapped the corner of the menu against his mouth as he tried to quiet his instinctual reaction because had he _mentioned_ the fact Lecter was his type? Tall, long legs that went on for miles, and he moved with a particular grace that bespoke of amazing physical control. Sandy hair that was just this side of starting to grey, and an angular face that made him look carved from a block of warm marble. There were laugh lines around his eyes that promised to show delight if he ever smiled, and the carefully trimmed sideburns and clean-shaven face were hints of how meticulous he was about his appearance. 

The waitress' sudden appearance at his table saved him from combusting on the spot. "Honey, you look like you just swallowed a jalapeno!" 

Will laughed at that, feeling the flush in his face as he fanned with the menu. "No, it's not that, I just got a little flushed is all." 

"Whatcha gonna have?" 

"Uh, coffee. Lots and lots of it. Black." He stopped fanning with the menu and gave it one last glance over. "I'll have the turkey burger, lettuce and tomato, extra pickles and hold the mayo. Fries, and…." He gave a look at the side orders, trying to intuit what the detective might find appealing on the menu. "Hey, let me have one of the grilled chicken platters, with the vegetable medley." That looked about like the detective to him. "And coffee for him, too."

"Sure thing, honey. You meeting somebody?" The waitress turned both coffee cups upright on their saucers.

"Yeah, I think he's here, but let's see how long it takes him to figure it out." Will gave her a conspiratorial grin as he passed over the menu. 

"Yes sir! I'll bring out your coffee in just a second." She gave him a saucy little wink, and sashayed off behind the counter to find the coffee pot.

As soon as she was gone, the detective materialized at the table. "Mr. Graham?"

"That's me. You must be Detective Lecter." He offered his hand, but didn't stand. "Have a seat; Tina's on the way back with coffee, and I ordered you grilled chicken and the vegetable medley to go with your coffee." 

Hannibal took the offered hand and shook it, inwardly surprised at how firm the grip was. The young man looked like a strong wind could break him in half, and he adjusted his assumptions. "How old are you?" was the first thing out of his mouth, because that was the question on the tip of his tongue. "I'm sorry, you do not have to answer that." Unbuttoning his coat, he slid into the booth across from Will.

"Old enough to know better," Will admitted, grinning up at the waitress when she came to the table. "Thanks." Thank Christ for pretty carhop-dressed waitresses with impeccable timing. Because holy fuck, the move with the coat buttons had made Will's mouth go dry. He was glad of the fact his jaw hadn't dropped, and he pushed down any other thoughts and tried to stay purely professional. 

"Oh, you're welcome, doll." Since the other fella was at the table, Tina poured both cups full of hot, black coffee, and turned to the other guy. Handsome enough, but not her speed. A little too old, and a lot too much cop. "Hey, you want something else?"

The coffee smelled delicious, and he was reaching for the mug as she spoke to him. "Ah, no, thank you. In fact, I have already had lunch." Truth was he had not, but he _was_ a bit picky about what went into his body. So much so that he usually--actually exclusively--cooked for himself. Coffee, red wine, some fruits, and the occasional chocolate dipped pomegranate were his most frequent exclusions to that rule. 

"Bring it out anyway, to go. I'll take it home for dinner." Well, for Winston's dinner, anyway, because that damn dog _adored_ chicken. When Will could afford it, he bought whole chickens and stewed them up for him. Most times, it was actually cheaper than any wet dog food, and just as good for him. Once Tina had disappeared again, he got a little more serious. "Closing in on the wrong side of thirty-five," was his answer. "You could've looked my arrest record up." 

"You don't have one," Hannibal pointed out, realizing as he said it that it was an admission that he'd done exactly that. 

"Exactly. I don't like that kind of information getting out, Detective. Once you hit thirty, you've hit your expiration date." He gave a shrug; he didn't like it, but that's how the game was run. His boss was _mostly_ understanding and Will took a few pains to keep himself in top shape. "Anyway. Fast Freddie said you'd been Vice, but they promoted you a few years back?"

Hannibal tilted his head just a bit as he took Mr. Graham in. Given how neatly he'd just been maneuvered into admitting he'd done his research, he realized there was more intelligence behind those eyes than Will admitted to. That fascinated him, and he could begin to see why Frederick had chosen this young man as an informant. He was definitely intrigued. "That is correct," Hannibal confirmed. "Frederick was my partner until the promotion, and he is the one who provided me with your information and said that you might be willing to help us." 

He could've closed his eyes and listened to this detective recite the damn phone book. The precision of his speech, the lilting accent, and he had to remind himself, again, that he was not _actually_ sizing up a potential client. Instead, he cleared his throat with a too-big swallow of hot coffee. The scalding burn in his throat helped to re-focus him on why he was actually there. "Uh, yeah. I mean, it's mostly enlightened self-interest." 

"How do you mean?" Hannibal reached for his notebook and fountain pen. He was quite well-known for the anachronism in the station, when most of his colleagues had gone happily digital.

So that was the scratching noise he'd heard over the phone. Will had to grin; he hadn't seen a nibbed pen like that since his grandfather's funeral. "I like bears, Detective Lecter," Will answered, taking another drink of his coffee. He did not realize what he'd actually said until the coffee burned its way down his throat and Hannibal's eyes had widened. Talk about a slip of the tongue. He shifted in the seat, leaning forward just a little to try and hide the fact that he'd just let something incredibly dirty slip out.

Hannibal did not miss the implications. Nor did he miss Will's tongue wetting his lips or the unconscious shift of Will's body to lean nearer. He also didn't miss the dilation of his own eyes, nor the fact that he leaned in as well, perhaps only a few microns, but enough that he feels his body shifting in reply to the obvious invitation Will was unconsciously making. "So you believe that for your own personal safety you should cooperate with us, meaning you think the Ripper is… as you say it, a bear?"

Will was just a little breathless as Hannibal leaned into him across the table. "Yes, that's what I think. Obviously it's a guy, because he's overpowering the men as well as the women. You don't necessarily have to have brute force to do that, but we're all pretty damn aware of our surroundings. If you don't have surprise, you need strength," he said quickly, only shutting up and leaning back long enough to allow the waitress to put down his burger--which was no longer nearly as appetizing as the man across the booth from him--and the foam take-out tray. 

Hannibal covered the rim of his coffee cup with his hand; he didn't want more coffee, he just wanted Will to finish his thoughts. They very much echoed Hannibal's own, with some odd points he'd never considered thrown in for good measure.

When she'd gone, he picked up the thread of his thoughts as if he hadn't been interrupted. "You're probably not looking at a john, at least, not a regular. You don't shit where you eat, and this is the biggest turd in the punch bowl right now. He's not your normal killer either, cause he's gone outside his own ethnic group. Means he could be bi- or multiracial." Off Hannibal's surprised look, Will arched a brow. "What? I like CourtTV."

Hannibal didn't realize he had changed expression until Will challenged him. The one-liner about CourtTV was an obvious lie; he showed more awareness of profiling tactics and pattern recognition than a lot of trained officers. "In fact I have been discussing the idea of a multiracial killer with my commanding officer. He is in charge of the task force that is searching for Ripper suspects," Hannibal admitted. "I don't think it is the only possibility, only that it is very likely. The other possibility is that the Ripper does not see race. That there is some other quality the victims share that outweigh their race as a contributing factor."

"Their profession, maybe?" Will asked, using a knife and fork to cut his burger in half before taking a bite. His teeth audibly crunched the pickles on the sandwich, and he brought a napkin to his mouth to catch the drip of ketchup. "I mean, we've all got that in common. That's why nobody wants to talk to you guys, you know? Not just because you're 5-0, but because we've all got clients that don't like the cops, and any one of them could be your Ripper." 

Yes, both Hannibal and the entirety of the Vice squad had figured that out on their own. "Yes, that's what we feared," is all he said to that. "Mr. Graham--"

"Will, please," he reminded, waving his knife to cut off the polite shit before it started. "Just Will is just fine." 

"As you wish." Hannibal made a quick note of that as well. "Aren't you afraid of your… clients?" Deeper question; _why are you helping us?_

"A few of 'em. Most of them are just closeted guys who can't go home to the wife and kids any more without a little strange on the side that doesn't judge. I don't judge. I do what I do and I collect my fee. I like to think of it as self-delusion on both sides. They can believe they're straight arrows and upstanding citizens, and I get to believe I'm actually helping people." 

That opened the door to one of the questions Hannibal really wanted to know the answer to; _Why is someone with your obvious talents doing this?_ but it was simply not his place to ask. He doodled a few more notes into his notebook, of things that Will had just mentioned, and then he steepled his fingers together and regarded Will over them. "Do you have any names you would like to provide us?" He knew the answer--No--before he even asked the question, but he still had to ask it. 

Will put his utensils down and gave Hannibal the same unblinking stare he was receiving. "You know the answer to that, and if you don't, you're a shittier cop than I gave you credit for being." 

The smile didn't reach his face, but it tried. "Of course not, but I had to ask." A pause to drain the dregs of his coffee cup. Then a question he could ask crystallized; he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. "Where did you train?" Will's easygoing mask slipped just a bit at that, and Hannibal saw it.

Will struggled to keep his composure. Of all the people he'd met in his life, nobody ever thought to ask him about personal things. "I didn't. Not really. I just pick things up. I can see why people do things, I can feel what they're feeling. I can pick up patterns, I understand motivations that people don't always admit to. I listen to a suburban father bitch about dragging his kids to soccer practice, I can smell the grass. I can see the sun, and the sweaty kids chasing the ball, and I know he'd rather be in a dark room with some stranger's dick in his mouth than watching his kids play." He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry even though he'd eaten less than half the sandwich. "I read. I learn things; it's easy to learn from books because there's no distraction. No… people." 

Suddenly Hannibal could intuit at least one reason why Will had the profession he did; connections made rarely lasted. If he really did invite people into his mind in this way, then an hour or two hours would be painful, but easy to forget. And there would be no reason to retain their mindset once they were gone. Unlike, say, Hannibal's profession, in which you learned to marinate yourself in the mindset of a murderer until he was caught. 

Someone like Will put in a situation like that could easily turn into a serial killer himself. 

That thought disturbed him. Will was obviously eager to help, but the consequences, Hannibal did not want to consider. How could Will accept them? How could Hannibal accept the thought that he might be putting Will on a path to destruction? He couldn't. "I'm sorry, Will. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable," he apologized, and snapped his notebook closed. "I appreciate your willingness to be of assistance, but I don't think we'll call you again."

As Hannibal was moving to get up, Will reached out and caught him by the wrist. There was an almost electric jolt between the two, and Hannibal froze in mid-movement. "Sit back down," Will asked softly, almost pleadingly. 

Without knowing quite why, he did so. 

"Look, I don't want you think I'm a moron. I can handle what I do. I just want to help, that's all. And maybe the way my mind works can help you." Will finally let go of Hannibal's wrist, and he looked at his hands instead of making eye contact. "I'm not the killer you're looking for, Detective, I promise that I'm not. But maybe I can help point you in the right direction." 

Hannibal was studying his hands as well, simply because he didn't think he could stand to look at the trouble that was so obviously brewing in Will's eyes. "I do not want to put you in any danger." 

At that, Will laughed softly, and started shoveling his burger and his fries into the takeout box with the chicken. "Look at what I do for a living, Detective--"

"Hannibal." He disliked the imbalance of power between them; first names put them both on equal footing, and opened the door to a more even relationship.

"Hannibal." The man's name was as unique and mysterious as he was, and Will felt it rolling around his brain like thunder. _Hannibal Lecter_. "Look at what I do for a living, Hannibal. I'm already in danger." 

"Well, perhaps together we can change that." He pondered his next idea for a few moments while Will was getting ready to leave, and just as he moved to pick up his coat, Hannibal stopped him. "Would you be willing to look at the profile that we have created thus far of the Ripper? Your unique insights might prove useful." Not to mention he was part of the culture being preyed upon. Chances are, he might spot something from that point of view police officers might dismiss as unimportant.

Will agreed with a thoughtful nod. "Sure, just let me know when to come by the station." 

"No." Sudden decision, and Hannibal wasn't even sure why he was making it, beyond a pure instinct. "My house. I will make you dinner." Hannibal looked at his watch; it was close to four now. "Tomorrow night, perhaps seven?"

Will's mouth tightened into a frown; his boss would be very, very pissed off if he knew that Will wasn't out working on a perfectly good night. "Afternoons would be better," he admitted after a moment. 

Of course; Hannibal hadn't thought. He'd just simply presumed his schedule and Will's would match. "Lunch, then, that's perfect. Three?"

"Three's good." He took the stiff little business card Hannibal handed him, and flipped it over to find an address handwritten on the back, as well as a phone number. "What's this?"

"My address and my telephone number." He would have thought that was self-explanatory. 

"Uh, yeah, I figured that, but." He waved the card limply. "This address is in a very nice part of town where people like myself are not usually found," was the way he chose to put it. 

"So?" He had purchased the house because it fit his aesthetic, not because of the location. "We are colleagues, yes?" Colleagues of a sort, anyway, and that thought was far less disturbing than the instinctual pull he was feeling towards Will Graham. He needed to understand it. "Colleagues are always welcome at my home." 

Will studied the address on the card, committing it to his memory, along with the phone number, and then passed it back to Hannibal. "Better not be found with the card of a police detective on me," he pointed out. And then he rattled off the address, rolling it off his tongue like it had been written on his brain from the day of his birth. 

Hannibal was impressed with Will's memory, and inclined his head. "That's excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you there." 

Will picked up his foam tray, but when he reached for the check, his hand collided with Hannibal's, who had been reaching for the same thing. Their knuckles brushed together for a moment, and then Hannibal's hand retreated, letting Will take the crumpled order slip. "Goodbye, Detect--Hannibal." He savored the name on his tongue, realizing he liked the way it felt in his mouth when he said it.

"Good day, Will." Hannibal watched as the young man headed for the register to pay, and realized that Will had left no tip. Smart; instead of fighting over who paid the check, he'd simply taken the check and left Hannibal to tip or not. He did, generously, and was out of the booth just in time to hold the door open for Will as he walked out into the sunlight and down the block. 

_-_-_

It was ten o'clock, and it had been slow tonight. But Will wasn't surprised; Wednesdays weren't exactly high-traffic times to begin with. It did, however, usually mean that he was going to be getting a visit from-- yep, there he was. 

"Hello, Graham." 

"Hello, Francis." He knew the last name, of course, but it made the man happier if they stayed on a first name basis only. There was irony in the situation. Will knew Francis came to him because he did not want pity; Will pitied him because of how he knew other people treated the man. He could even relate to it, on some level. But Francis' voice was soft, and his touch was (mostly) gentle, and he was (usually) kind. 

Francis was standing in the dark, away from his car parked about a half a block away. There were no streetlights at this end of the alleyway, and the dark gave him a place to hide. He was embarrassed by the malformation on his face, by the way it destroyed his speech. "Can we… talk? Just talk?"

"Anything you want," Will reminded him. "It's your nickel."

Francis nodded, even though he knew the darkness shielded his motions. "I just need to talk to someone." 

"I'm here for you." Will left his usual spot, and headed into the darkness, seeking Francis out by following his voice. He literally banged into him, and Francis reached out to steady him. "Sorry about that." 

"I don't mind." His leather jacket creaked as he helped stand Will back up, and almost drowned out his words. He took Will's hand in his own, looking down at the awkward fit of male hand in male hand, larger gripping smaller. 

Will shifted his hand so that his fingers were clasping Francis' the way they were meant to, and he nudged the other man with his shoulder. "So, tell me about your day, Francis," he urged. 

Francis led the way to his car, a large sedan with a spacious back seat. But he didn't move for the back tonight, just opening the door for Will and letting him slide into the passenger seat. Then he came around and got in the driver's seat, but didn't start the car. "I met someone."

Will couldn't help it; he smiled. Genuinely, that was a record for this guy, and he hoped like hell whomever it was would be good to him. "Did you? What're they like?" 

"Her name is Reba, and she's blind." When he mentioned her blindness, Francis couldn't help looking at himself in the rearview mirror. "People… the people I work with, they told her what I look like, but she doesn't care. She touched me. Her hands touched my face, and she said I was handsome."

"I've told you the same thing," Will reminded gently. The cleft palate had never bothered him in the least, but it seemed the defining characteristic of Francis' life. It also meant Francis had never let Will kiss him before. "You're a wonderful guy, Frankie, and I think you let too many people lead you into a lot of negativity you don't need." 

"I know." He looked over at Will's profile at the nickname, taking in the pretty features that had never once looked at him like he was ugly or worthless. The only one who had ever felt close enough to him to give him an affectionate nickname, something just the two of them shared. Maybe it had been just because he was paid for it, but it was kindness that Francis had desperately needed and hadn't found in anyone except Graham. "That's why you need to be careful."

"I'm always careful," Will said flippantly, hoping to deflect the conversation back to Francis. 

"I'm serious. The Ripper looks for beautiful people, Graham. You're beautiful." He brought his hand up, tracing Will's cheekbone and down across his perfect, non-defective lips. "You're beautiful, and you're nice to the people you're with. You make them feel good. Not dirty and used and wadded up like a tissue."

Suddenly, Will's attention was on high alert, and he was starting to feel a slight bit uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." He let his hand fall then, and put it in his pocket. From his pocket, he drew out a stack of bills and handed the whole thing over to Will. "Goodbye." Leaning over, he opened the passenger side door for Will. 

"Frankie. _Francis_." Will left the door open, but made the man look at him. Very deliberately, he put the money back in his hand, and met his eyes. "Just, promise me you'll come back and let me know how you and Reba are doing, all right?" Leaning over, he did the one thing Francis had never let him do.

He kissed him. Directly on the lips, tongue stroking lightly over the cleft in his lip, then pressing a second, light kiss directly on the defect. "Give the world hell, Francis. You and that lady of yours, be good to each other." 

Francis recoiled as soon as Will let him go, rubbing his fingers over his lips like he could still feel the kiss on them. "N-n-n-no one has--"

"Yeah, I know, but that's why I had to." He got out of the car, and leaned back in through the open window. "Seriously, Francis. Be good to yourself, all right? Don't let the world beat you down." 

Francis reached for Will's hand through the open window and clasped it tightly between his. "Watch out, Graham. You're just what he's looking for." 

Will had just enough time to yank his hand back through the window before Francis cranked the car and tore off. He waited until the car was out of sight, and he took out his phone. He stared at the newest entry in his contacts, _Det. H. Lecter_ , but ultimately put it back in his pocket. Just because he got creeped out by Francis saying goodbye was no reason to go running to Hannibal Lecter.

When no one else showed, Will threw in the towel at half past midnight. He needed to catch up on some sleep, and he had a da--no, he had an _appointment_ tomorrow that he needed to make sure he was his best for.

_-_-_

Hannibal was awakened at two forty-five in the morning. "Another Ripper, Hannibal." Jimmy Price was unusually subdued. "This one's…"

"I'm on my way." Hannibal wouldn't admit to himself that he had cut off Jimmy's mumbled words because he was afraid of what they'd be. If he'd heard _this one's another male_ , all he could've thought about was Will Graham. In fact, that was still _most_ of what he was thinking about now, even as he got dressed and made sure his notebook and his phone were in his jacket before heading out the door. 

_-_-_

The crime scene was already taped off, and the only spectators were other hookers. Some were being questioned, but he could sense the frustration already building because they were not being given answers. 

The body was being hidden from view by a cordon of uniformed officers, ringing the body but all facing outwards because nobody wanted to look at it. 

Brian Zeller appeared at Hannibal's shoulder with the details. "Okay, got a body here. Young, about thirty-something, I'd guess. No identification was found, eyes were removed, because that's appetizing. There's three spaces on the body where skin was removed, and oh yeah, just in case that's not freaky enough, this one's had its heart cut out." 

Hannibal's mind was quickly categorizing each of the details Zeller was giving him, but none of them was the one he was looking for. He hated it, but he had to ask it. "Male or female?"

"Male, blonde, five foot two, about a hundred and twenty pounds," Zeller reported, checking his notes. 

Only then did Hannibal draw in a deep breath. It wasn't Will Graham, but he put his hand inside his pocket, gripping his telephone and fighting the urge to text him and find out for sure. He stepped between two of the officers in the cordon and knelt beside the body. The blue gloves were cool as he snapped them over his hands, and then he touched the desecrated flesh. Ragged edges looked as if the skin had been torn instead of cut, and that was something different. Maybe he was in a hurry, or maybe there was something different happening underneath the skin. "Jimmy, may I please have the camera?" he asked, holding his hand out.

"Got something, Elephant Man?" 

"I certainly hope so." He ignored the nickname, reminding himself yet again that it was not at all appropriate to murder your co-workers. Taking the camera, he made sure to get close-up photographs of the torn edges and the ragged patches left behind. "Look. The skin patches are not cut out this time. The edges are jagged, similar to pages torn out of a book." 

Jimmy took the camera back from Hannibal and edged in closer, using the viewfinder to examine the torn skin close up. "Looks like they might've been done with teeth. Like a bite that got way out of hand." 

"Get me a close-up of the face," Hannibal instructed. "I've a meeting tomorrow with someone who might be able to help us with identifying our victim."

"Sure thing, boss." Jimmy made the requested snap, and passed the camera back to a technician. "Can we cover him up now?"

"No." Hannibal rather wished they could, give the poor victim some privacy, but there was still too much to be determined. "Once they've cleared the area around the body, then you can, but everything must be bagged. Cigarette butts, condom wrappers, everything." 

Zeller nodded. "They're already working on it. How far out do we go?"

Hannibal raked fingers through his hair, messing it up and letting flop a bit over his forehead. "I don't know. Make it a ten foot radius. That ought to be enough to pick up anything that's left behind, even by accident. Oh, and look for tracks of a vehicle. There's been no reports of anyone walking on foot, so there's got to be some sort of transportation around here that they've been using. Check reports of abandoned cars, see if any of them are no longer where they're supposed to be." That was a starting place, at least, but at the rate cars were stolen and abandoned in the city, it would be a needle in a haystack.

Another of the young crime scene techs came over. "Detective Lecter?" At the acknowledging nod, he pointed towards a white van to the side of the crime scene. "Doctor Bloom wants to know when she came come in and remove the body." 

He looked at Zeller again, and he ponied up the requested information. "Liver temperature was ambient when we arrived on scene, roughly 90 degrees. We've got all the crime scene measurements for sketches and we're nearly done photographing the area. If she can move the body without disturbing the rest of the area, half an hour?"

Hannibal looked back at the tech. "Half an hour." 

The tech disappeared to relay the message, and Hannibal dragged his fingers through his hair again. The urge to check on Will Graham was starting to be a bit distracting, so he put it out of his mind (again) and opened his notebook. His pen scratched over the pages as he took copious notes, including the position of the body, the position of the jagged-edged wounds, and why that might be significant.

He wasn't aware of anyone standing beside him until he closed the notebook and placed it back in his pocket. Then he realized that Alana Bloom was standing beside him, looking out over the corpse between the officers. "You've gotta find some way to stop this thing, Hannibal," she said softly. 

"I know." He put his arm around her shoulders to try and offer some sort of comfort. "I'm doing everything I can."

"I know," she echoed, offering him comfort in return. "Just… do it faster, okay? No more kids on my table." 

"They're not kids, Alana."

"Look enough like it for me." She slipped out of his hug when the cordon ringing the body broke apart. "That's my cue; get a sheet over that body!" she shouted, and her assistant was running from the van with an opaque plastic sheet and a body bag. "We'll get him in the bag and on the stretcher. Get him out of here and I'll take care of him." 

_-_-_

_bing bong_   
_bing bong_

Will reached out over Winston and fumbled on the lock screen. It was five-fifteen in the morning, and he'd only been asleep a few hours. The insistent ping of his text messages was driving him nuts, and he wondered who the fuck was texting him so urgently at this time of the morning.

_Det. H. Lecter_

Will was suddenly wide awake as his finger swiped the icon. 

_There has been another Ripper murder. Perhaps you could come to my home for breakfast instead? HL._

Ridiculous. Who signed a text with initials these days? But he was focusing on that only so he wasn't focused on the invitation. He'd gotten home a little after one, showered, and watched about a half hour of an old movie before falling asleep around two. His fingers were dancing across the keyboard before he even thought.

_Be there in thirty minutes, gotta get breakfast for Winston first. WG_

Fucking initials.

_-_-_

The soft chime of Hannibal's telephone sounded like a gunshot in the quiet office, and he swiped quickly to see who the message was from. Something he didn't even know was knotted loosened inside of him when he read the contact information: _Will Graham_ , and then the answering text caused the knot to re-form. 

_Be there in thirty minutes, gotta get breakfast for Winston first. WG_. 

He felt vaguely disappointed; Will had not made any mention of a significant other, nor would he have thought the profession would've encouraged it. But he texted Will back;

_Excellent. Bring your friend along, he is of course welcome._

Only a few seconds had passed when his phone chimed again. 

_Don't think you want a dog in your fancy house, Hannibal. :)_

A dog. The knot released again, and something eased. Not a boyfriend, then. He couldn't have told why he felt relief, but he did. 

_Quite right, but I am always willing to make exceptions. Breakfast will be sausages, so there will be more than enough for your guest. Bring him._

A few more seconds, and another chime.

This message was a photograph of Will in a bathrobe and a very enthusiastic shaggy dog, captioned _You just made his morning. We'll be there._

Hannibal sat back in his office chair, looking at the wall covered in Ripper files, and the photos from the morning's crime scene were spread on the table where he'd been studying them. Only a few of their victims were actually identified; the morning's John Doe was hung at the end of the line, and Hannibal straightened all the photos before leaving the room and heading into the kitchen to start breakfast.

_-_-_-

Will had Winston on a leash, and he was dressed in his best clothes for this. He'd actually dug out the suit he almost never wore, a skinny red tie around his collar. It matched Winston's red collar and blue leash. He'd walked from his apartment to Hannibal's house; a fifteen-minute walk that took him into a neighborhood he'd never really looked at. 

Hannibal's house was a three-story stone affair, with gabled windows and a covered entryway. Lights filled the downstairs windows, and the sun peeking over the horizon would flood the backyard and back windows with warm morning light. It was quiet and ostentatious, and everything that Will did not want in a home of his own. 

His idea of home would be something like the Unabomber's; a nice cabin in the woods, near a lake or stream for fishing, and room for about five or ten dogs to run free and not run into another living person for miles. 

Well, eventually he'd have it for himself; his investments weren't doing _that_ bad any more, not since the economy had picked back up, and maybe in a few more years, he'd have the assets socked away to put a down payment on his little piece of heaven. 

Shaking that thought out of his head, Will pulled Winston to heel and rang the doorbell.

Hannibal answered after only a moment, and gave will the first genuine smile he could remember seeing on the detective's face. And fuck, those laugh lines at his eyes were cute as fuck, little crinkles that made his face even more alive. "Will, come in. And this must be Winston, yes?"

"Yeah, this is him. Winston, say hello to Hannibal." 

Winston apparently knew _say hello_ , because he offered his front paw for a handshake.

Hannibal hesitated a moment, but finally reached out and shook the dog's paw, then quickly wiped his hand off on his apron as he stepped back to allow them entry to the house. As soon as he stepped in, Will could smell sausages frying in the kitchen, and his mouth started to water. 

"Breakfast is almost ready; here, let me take your coat. And the leash." 

Will knelt down and unclipped Winston's leash, and the dog made a beeline for the kitchen. Hannibal folded Will's overcoat carefully onto a wooden hangar, and hung it in the coat closet before following them to the kitchen. 

Winston was sitting beside the island, looking up at the surface but not jumping or begging obnoxiously; Hannibal was impressed at the dog's obvious house training. He handed Will a knife and a red bell pepper. "For the eggs. Dice."

Will took the knife and cored the pepper, removing the stem and seeds. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied Hannibal. 

The man looked tired; there were circles forming under his eyes, pockets of tiredness that Will felt all too viscerally. There were lines on his face that had everything to do with the case and nothing with exhaustion, and Will had to close his eyes before he slipped into the same state of mind. He was chopping without thinking, nearly losing the tip of a finger before he brought his mind back to the knifework at hand. 

The coffee machine was French press, and while the sausages crackled and browned in their frying pan, Hannibal busied himself at the machine. Soon the fragrant aroma of coffee was floating over, and Will carried the cutting board over to the island where Hannibal was cooking, but didn't dare put the pepper in the bowl of scrambled egg mixture yet. He was just following directions, not cooking. 

"Here, let me trade you." Hannibal took the knife out of Will's hand, and passed him a clear glass mug instead. "You look like you could use this." Hannibal was sipping out of his own cup as he finished preparing the breakfast meats. 

"So do you," Will pointed out, not even arguing the point. "You've been up all night and even when you do sleep, you're not sleeping well. You've got circles and bags under your eyes, and I know where that comes from."

"When you are living in the mind of a murderer, happy dreams do not come easily. No one would know that better than you," Hannibal countered, adding diced potatoes and onions to the frying pan alongside the sausages. He took one of the sausages out, split it open to check the doneness, and tossed the two halves to the dog. "I was called to another murder scene this morning. A young blond man."

Will's mug hit the counter with a shaky thump, and he wished Hannibal had barstools. "Birthmark on his hip, back side?" 

Hannibal turned the heat down at the noise, and turned his attention to his friend. "It is possible; the skin from that area was removed." A momentary pause. "I'm sorry, Will."

"Let me see. Do you have a picture? Let me see," he repeated. "I need to see." 

Winston got up at Will's agitation, going over and leaning his head against Will's knee with a loud whimper. 

It occurred to Hannibal that Winston might actually be an unofficial service dog, because Will knelt beside the dog, burying his face in its shaggy fur. Will's knuckles were white where he gripped the dog's collar, and Winston was eerily still and comforting until Will was able to stand on his own. 

Hannibal turned the stove off completely, taking the pan off the heat. "Come. I'll show you." He knew from the tone of the demand that there was no putting it off. He led Will and Winston into the office, and that was all he needed. 

Will made a beeline towards the end of the line, and touched the photo of the last victim. "Jamie. Uh, Kennedy was his street name, like the comedian. But his name was Jamie Deets." He touched the third photo next. "Marianne Fleet." Then the fifth. "Matty. Matty Reese." 

Hannibal picked up a black marker and wrote the names on the bottom of the photos. The other photos had names on them, but Will tapped the photo of the fourth victim, an attractive black woman. "Her name isn't Aisha. It's Brianna. Brianna Latisha Thomasson, she used to laugh with me and Jamie and Alleycat about being a BLT." 

Lecter wrote the additional name beside "Aisha" on the photograph, because Aisha Greene was the name they'd found to match her fingerprints. "Aisha Greene was her work identity?" .

Will nodded. "Most of us know the real names of our co-workers. Believe it or not, we're friends. We look out for each other, or we try to." The other photos were already identified, as correctly as he knew them. The count was even now, four men and four women. "Obviously we're failing."

"You cannot control what others do to those they feel beneath them." Hannibal put his hand on Will's shoulder. "Let me check the stove, and I will be back. We can get this out of the way and then eat." 

He couldn't imagine having much of an appetite, but he just nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good." He sat at the table where all the files were spread out, and Winston came over and put his head in Will's lap. 

Hannibal returned to the kitchen, double-checking to make certain the stove was turned off, and refilled both his and Will's coffee before bringing it back to the office. "These are all the files we have at the moment, plus the photographs and such from the scene this morning." He passed Will's coffee to him, and sat across from him. "Where would you like to start?" 

Will shook his head, sipping at his coffee and looking through the papers and photos with his other hand. "I'll know it when I run across it." He disdained most of the autopsy photos, mostly because these were people he _knew_ and those were not the images he wanted of them stuck in his head for the rest of his life.

He put down his coffee, though, when he saw a crime scene report with mentions of surveillance footage. "Did you ever manage to track this down? Because I can tell you right now, none of us operate in any area where our faces are gonna be on camera. So if you actually got footage of one the victims--" and there he swallowed roughly, "--then chances are you've got film of something useful."

Hannibal took the report that Will had zeroed in on, and scanned over it, then flipped through his notes. "Yes, actually, we did," he reported after a few moments. "We've got digital copies of the surveillance footage, and there is nothing of use."

"Of use to you," Will corrected. "See if you can get a copy for me to look at, because I'll know if something's wrong. You wouldn't." 

That was fair enough, and Hannibal picked up his smartphone to make the call and requested a tape or disc of the footage. He was frowning when he hung up the phone. "It will not be available until tomorrow." 

"That's fine, I'll come by tomorrow afternoon and pick it up." Will wasn't paying attention to Hannibal in the least--which was saying something. "Hey, what's this?"

Hannibal came around the table and stood behind Will, peering over his shoulder to see what he was asking about. "A partial license plate we pulled from a car off the surveillance tape. We can't make out enough numbers to track it down, especially because we can't tell a lot of the details of the car." 

It looked to Will like a car he should recognize--and an instant later, he did. That was Francis' car, and he dropped the photo. "Probably somebody's john." 

"That's what we were assuming, until we can get a match that says otherwise." Hannibal picked the photo back up after Will dropped it, sensing that there was something more behind that question, but he let it go. Pressing him would do no good. 

Will moved on to more crime scene photos, and he pulled four of them out of four different stacks, and lined them up together. "Hey, Hannibal, you see that?"

Hannibal leaned in over Will's shoulder, so they were almost touching as he looked at the photographs together. At first, he didn't see anything, but then he saw it. The formation of the bodies in each one was 90 degrees from the other, forming a human rectangle in four parts. 

Thinking for a moment, he pulled three more of the photos and lined them up vertically, and they fit exactly in the grooves between the heads and feet of the rectangular-shaped victims. "I have seen this shape before."

"Mahjongg tiles," Will supplied. His boss loved mahjongg, and they often played. "It's the symbol for the Dragon tiles. There's two, a red and a green."

"But what about the last one? Is it building a new symbol or is it part of the old?" 

Will looked at the last set of photos, of Jamie's body lying on the pavement. "I don't think it is. There's no sense that it fits the pattern either. Almost a crime of… passion."

It was obvious to Hannibal that Will was coming to some kind of realization, and equally as obvious that he wasn't intending on sharing it. "Will?" he asked softly. 

"Huh? Oh." He pushed the last photo of Jamie back to Hannibal. "You sure it's the same killer, and not just some copycat?"

"We're certain," Hannibal replied. "There's far too many similarities in things we have not released to the press. 

"Even the wounds are different," Will argued. "They're not the surgical cuts that were on the other victims, and look, they took a birthmark. BLT had a birthmark, and a patch of vitiligo on her ass, and it wasn't disturbed."

"What do you know, Will?" Hannibal put a hand on Will's shoulder, and turned to face him. "You've been deliberately avoiding the photograph of the car's partial plate and for some reason, you haven't looked at the file for the new murder at all. You have figured something out, and you are not saying."

"Yeah, because maybe it's just making me feel a little weird, thinking if I'm gonna implicate an innocent person just because they said a few weird things the other night," he pointed out. "This is why we don't talk to the cops. We're allowed to have secrets, Hannibal."

"Yes, of course you are. But you have to realize, those secrets could also be the thing that allows another one of your friends to be murdered." He squeezed Will's shoulder gently. "We need your help, and you need ours." 

Without thinking, Will reached up and put his hand on top of Hannibal's, and squeezed in return. "I know. I just… Francis doesn't seem the type."

"Francis?"

"Francis Dolarhyde. He's a john, and kind of a friend. He just said goodbye the other night, he's met a girlfriend and I hope he's happy with her. He's not the type, Hannibal, trust me."

Regardless of Will's feelings, Hannibal made a mental note of the name to research it later, especially the make of his car and his tag. "Let's look again and see if we can find anything else." 

Will nodded, and turned back to the files on the table, without quite dislodging Hannibal's hand from his shoulder. It felt warm, and comfortable, like a touch he hadn't known he was missing until how. Poring once more through the files, Will kept coming back to the death of Jamie Deets. "You know, where he was found, that's not very far from where I work," he finally said. "Only a few blocks, four, maybe five. And what was done, that's very personal. The others were clinical, filling some sort of need, I don't know. But Jamie, Jamie feels… personal. There's anger there that isn't in the others. He's not part of the pattern, I know he's not. He's an outlier." 

Hannibal brought more coffee in for Will and listened to him try and put things together. With the proper training, this man would be an amazing profiler one day. "Other than the injuries, what are you seeing that makes you say this?"

Will took the coffee gratefully, and tried to immerse himself even deeper in the mind he was trying to find. "The position of the body, first of all. The others were positioned carefully, a part of the pattern, the symbol. Jamie's just… tossed to the side, like he's disposable. And then there are the injuries. They're rough, they're not surgical. They're personal, but they're not. They're the same as all the others--excised tissue, they're just excised differently. That means something, Hannibal, I just don't know what yet." He tossed his glasses onto the table in frustration, and rubbed his eyes. "Maybe I'm just too close to it, I can't see it." 

Hannibal had the urge to rub his hand over the back of Will's neck, offer some sort of comfort to the agony he was going through, but there was no way for him to do so. But that he wanted to was troubling. It meant he was getting too close to this young man, but just the idea of trying to distance himself was equally as troubling. "Maybe you aren't giving yourself enough time. You're trying to force things to come to you. Come, let me cook for you. Have something to eat. See what comes to you when you aren't trying to force a connection. Let it happen organically and perhaps we can discover what you haven't seen yet." 

Even though he wanted to protest that he was not that hungry, Will knew Hannibal had the right idea. He was too close, and he was trying to force things to help his friends. Getting to his feet, he drained the cup of the last refill, and nodded. "Okay, yeah. That sounds like a pretty good idea. That breakfast smelled pretty good until I interrupted it."

"It's no problem. I can heat it right back up to finish it frying, if you want to let the dog out." 

Shit, Winston. Will had gotten so wrapped up in the files and the murders that he'd nearly forgotten his dog. "Yeah, good idea. Win! Winston!"

Winston came trotting in from the next room, and Will picked up the leash for his collar as he took the dog out the front door to take care of whatever business he had to. He had stuffed a few plastic bags in his jacket pocket for just this occasion whenever they went for walks, so he was completely prepared. 

Hannibal was watching from the kitchen, carefully watching the sausages and potatoes as they browned. The red pepper that Will had diced still sat beside the now-useless egg mixture, and Hannibal threw the eggs out and cracked four more, whisking them with a little milk and a little cheese before sprinkling the pepper in and pouring the egg mixture into a second frying pan. They scrambled beautifully, and by the time Will had come back in with Winston, Hannibal had apportioned out three plates. Two had heaping helpings of scrambled eggs, sausage, and potatoes, and the third had four sausages cut into thirds, and this plate he sat on the floor for Winston. 

Will was absurdly thankful for Hannibal's concern for his dog, and before he could second-guess, he leaned over and gave the detective a hug. "Thanks for looking out for Winston for me." 

Hannibal was surprised by the hug, quick as it was, and he did not have a chance to return it before Will sat back at his place. "You're quite welcome, Will," was all he could say. He rather wished he could return the gesture, but the moment had already passed. 

Winston was obviously a fan; the sausages disappeared from his plate in quick order, and it was licked clean. Will was eating almost as quickly, inhaling the potatoes and eggs. "These are delicious. I wondered if you had some kind of allergy, but now, I'm thinking it's just a palate thing," he said between bites.

That had Hannibal cracking a smile. "Yes, it is a palate thing, as you say. I prefer the more complex tastes of my own creations, although I make certain exceptions. Coffee, wines, certain fruits, and chocolate pomegranates," he confessed. "Though even with coffee, I much prefer pressing my own to the swill served at the station." 

"I can't argue with that; the last time I tasted cop coffee, I think they'd used pencil shavings and sweat socks to filter it with."

Not a completely inaccurate description. Hannibal watched in pleasure as Will cleaned his plate, folding his napkin to wipe his mouth and place it properly beside his plate once he was done. The young man had learned basic manners somewhere, and that put him head and shoulders above most people these days. "Would you like seconds? I have more sausage left." 

Will considered it briefly, but shook his head. "No, thank you." If there was one thing a guest didn't do, it was make a pig of himself, no matter how good the food was. "But I will help you put it away and clean up the dishes," he offered. 

Hannibal was glad to take him up on the offer; he was hoping to find a reason to spend more time with Will anyway. Between himself and Will, they managed one trip to get all the dirty dishes into the kitchen, and Hannibal started packing up the leftovers in a plastic dish. "At least let me send it home with you and Winston," Hannibal offered. He refused to eat leftovers, unless it was a special dish. Eggs and sausages would simply get thrown into the trash. Now that Will accepted gratefully, and Hannibal tucked it into the fridge until Will was ready to go. The sink was his next stop, and Hannibal started the faucet running. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up over his forearms, and handed the clean dishtowel to Will. "I'll wash, you dry?"

When Will didn't take the towel, Hannibal turned to look at him. Will was leaning against the counter, his eyes glued to Hannibal's arms. There were scars on his forearms, two straight lines, and he was focused on the wrists and the elbows. The casualness with which Hannibal had rolled up his sleeves had made Will's eyes cross, and he couldn't believe what was going on here. He hadn't been this hard for this little skin in… well, ever. 

He quickly turned to hide against the counter and took the towel. "Yeah, I can dry, no problem." He coughed once, clearing his throat as he went.

Hannibal looked down at himself, trying to see what Will had seen and found so entrancing. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and shook his head. Instead, he plunged his hands into the hot soapy water, washing each of the dishes and passing them over to Will for a rinse and a wipe dry before being stacked in the dish drainer. 

Will's eyes were locked dutifully on the drain in the sink, and then on the dishes as he wiped them down. He was trying very, very hard to get himself under control, so that he didn't offend Hannibal when he turned back around. He was thinking of every unattractive thing he could think of, and finally, by the time he got to rancid watermelons and decaying fried chicken, he felt like he could breathe again. They made a nice team, and as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, he had an epiphany. 

It wasn't just personal. It was _intimate._ Intimate in a way the others hadn't been. "That's it." Will looked up at Hannibal, eyes sparkling. "It's intimate. Not just personal, intimate. The close-up tearing of the wounds, the casting off of the body, even the way he just left Jamie there. It's intimate. It's meaningful. Jamie wasn't the target, he's just the stand in for someone else. Our killer has intimacy issues." That was a relief; Francis with his new girlfriend certainly didn't have issues. 

"Do you have any idea who he's standing in for?" Hannibal took the towel off Will's shoulder and folded it over the oven door.

"Not a clue," Will confessed. "Maybe an old boyfriend? Exorcising demons on a substitute in the hopes of obtaining closure? Closeted married guy working out some issues? Maybe Jamie reminds him of someone he can't have, or someone he _does_ have and wants to hurt," he added. Those were the biggest options he could think of. 

Hannibal had stepped out of the kitchen to grab his notebook and pen, but he was back and scratching down everything that Will was saying. He'd have to transcribe the shorthand later because no one else at the station could read it, but he'd worry about that later. He realized Will was peering over his shoulder, appearing to read along. "Do you read shorthand?"

"Uh, yeah, mostly. You've got shit handwriting, though. It's too blocky and there's a lot of symbols that don't benefit from that. Still, I can make it out and figure out the rest from context." 

Hannibal handed Will the notebook. "I will pay you a hundred dollars to transcribe everything in this notebook," he offered. "Just so I don't have to do it later." 

Will laughed, and flipped through the pages. About the size of a regular steno pad, the lines were filled with Hannibal's handwriting, both shorthand and not. "You want it on paper, or in a Word document and emailed to you?"

Hannibal indicated his office. "If you like, you can do it here and not have to send it anywhere. There's a computer in my office that I never use, and you are welcome to use it. It syncs with my computer at the office and there won't be any need to email anything. If you find you don't mind this kind of thing, I've a backlog of notebooks that I need to transcribe. I was planning to hire someone anyway; I would feel more comfortable if it were a friend I trusted." 

Will stayed leaned against the counter, notepad in hand, as he looked over the spiral rim at Hannibal. "I'll do your notebooks for you, and you don't have to pay. Friends don't pay friends." That was as close to returning the offered friendship that he could come. "You need the help and I've got the time." 

"You will, of course, permit me to cook for you," Hannibal insisted smoothly. "If you're going to be working here, I'd like to make certain you have breakfast and lunch." It would give him a reason to come home every day and cook, rather than skip lunch entirely. Which he had been doing too much of lately. And then as an afterthought, "Of course our friend Winston is welcome as well." 

The mention of his dog being as welcome as he made Will grin. "You know the way to win an argument. Okay, you've got a deal. Meals and dog included." 

Will's grin made Hannibal smile, and he held out his hand to seal the deal with a handshake. Will didn't hesitate to clasp his hand, and the tingle from the diner was back in force. He made himself drop Will's hand after a moment. "I'm sorry, I've got to leave for work shortly. Please, make yourself at home." 

"Sure." Will watched Hannibal disappear up the stairs towards what he had to assume were the bedrooms, and he whistled for Winston. "Winston?" The dog loped in from another room, tags jingling and nails clicking on the floor. He flopped beside Will, and Will knelt down to snuggle and scratch him behind the ears. "Hey, buddy. We got ourselves a situation, you know that?"

A soft whoof was his only answer, and Winston nuzzled Will's neck with a happy canine sigh. "Yeah, me too, boy," Will answered. "Me, too. Come on, let's head to the office and get a head start on these notebooks." Will settled in, paging through Hannibal's notebook before turning the front cover and getting to work.

When Hannibal came down after his shower, he was impeccably dressed. Trousers were ironed, shirt was white, crisp, and unwrinkled, his tie was tucked into his vest, and his jacket buttoned over his vest. His shoes were shined, his socks matched, and he had brushed both hair and teeth. 

Will let out a low whistle when Hannibal walked by the office. "Look at Mr. GQ, Winston!" 

Hannibal felt himself flushing slightly from being noticed; he was not accustomed to it in the least. "Please, help yourself to the spare key when you leave. It is--"

"Under the mat at the front door, and there's one in your umbrella rack," Will supplied, eye twinkling. "I saw the lump in the mat when I came over, and you just looked at your coat rack when you said that." 

Hannibal favored Will with a glare. "Yes. Please, feel free to take the one from the mat. Lock up when you leave, and you may come in whenever you are comfortable." 

"I will call first," Will promised. "I don't just barge in. Besides, you don't exactly seem the sock on the front door type." Hannibal's bewildered expression proved it. "Like I said. I'll call and make sure you're not busy before I come back over." 

He got that, and Hannibal cleared his throat. He checked to make sure his gun and his telephone were in their proper holsters, and picked up his overcoat from the rack. "Thank you, Will."

_I haven't done anything yet,_ , Will almost said, but he smiled instead; he smiled at Hannibal more than he'd smiled in years. "You're welcome, man." 

\---

By the time Hannibal had gotten to work, there was a new icon on his desktop; _Ripper Notes_ , and inside the folder, Hannibal found that his entire notebook had been copied over, by date. There was a note with tomorrow's date on it, and curiously, he clicked that. 

_Friday: Lunch with Will Graham and Winston; 3 PM. 3156 Armitage Highway, C12. Three-piece suits are optional, though knowing you, that's what you'll show up in. Winston and I are going to cook for you._

_PS, your bookkeeping needs some work. At least you date your notes._

Hannibal added the date and time to his calendar, making sure that it would alert him in time. Then he paged through the notes he'd made, and added in the notes he'd meant to write down, including the name Francis Dolarhyde, that Will had mentioned earlier, and turned to fill out a request to run down the man's tag and car. He sent it through to the DMV, and thought nothing about it as he went back to reading his notes and matching them up with the case file. 

As the day progressed, Hannibal's desk gathered more and more files. The new autopsy report on Jamie Deets, a new arrest history on Brianna Latisha Thomasson, and all the while, he was ignoring the paperwork on his desk because a new text message had come in a few hours ago.

_Take a look at Google Maps, I'm gonna email you the link. Tag in all the addresses where the bodies were found, and you're going to see an interesting cluster--as in, they're all around a five-block radius of where I work. I noticed it when I was putting in your notes, they were all locations I knew. I'm telling you, Hannibal, I'm starting to get a little worried. WG_

Hannibal had done exactly that; he'd followed the link that Will had texted him, and he had started plotting the locations of the bodies. Sure enough, they were forming a rough circle around the 2500 block of Heritage Acres, which Hannibal knew from his Vice days as the center of the prostitution and drug trade. It didn't thrill him in the least to know that Will was working around 2500 Heritage, but it wasn't really his place to say anything to the young man. Not yet. Although he wanted to, very badly. 

"Hannibal!" Zeller was shouting to be heard, because obviously Hannibal was not paying attention. "The DMV search pinged your results, and we're going to find this guy Dolarhyde to chat with him. The tag matched the partial plate we've got, and so does the make of the car it belongs to. We've got an address on him, and we're gonna be rolling out. We're rushing a warrant right now, just in case." 

"Shit." 

Zeller stopped in his tracks; in the almost three years he'd been working with Hannibal Lecter, this was the first time he had _ever_ heard the profanity slip through. "Hannibal?"

"Nothing." He regretted the profanity as soon as he had said it, but he couldn't help it. "I will meet you in the garage." Scrambling for his phone, he neglected the text messages and went directly to calls, dialing Will's phone as he got back into his jacket. 

Will's phone was vibrating against his hip as he was locking Hannibal's front door. "Hold on, hold on." He dropped the key into his pocket, rubbing his fingertips across it as he dragged his phone out. "Hey, I just locked up."

"Will. Please go back inside and do not leave." Hannibal's voice was very calm, but Will could hear the urgency anyway, and he rested his hand on Hannibal's doorknob.

"Break in the case? Hannibal, come on, what's going on?" He dug the key out and slipped it back into the lock, and let Winston into the house first. "Okay, I'm back inside."

"Lock the door, and do not open it until you hear from me." Irrational, irrational, Dolarhyde, to Hannibal's knowledge, didn't even know that Will knew him, but he did not want to take any chances with the young man's safety.

Fast Freddie was right. Somebody needed to save Will Graham.

"Okay, Hannibal, you're going to have to tell me what's going on," Will said reasonably, locking the deadbolt behind him. 

"We ran a query through the DMV, and we found a match on the partial license plate." He paused. "It's for your friend, Francis." 

"What?" Will dropped onto Hannibal's sofa. "You're going after Francis? Come on, let's get real here!"

"I do not have time for this," Hannibal said sadly. "We're going to pay him a visit and ask him some questions. If he is innocent, then this should be the end of it."

Will just shook his head. "Okay. I'll stay here until you're sure it's safe." Truth be told, he wasn't completely unhappy about this turn of events, but it did still chafe him. 

"Can you speak to your boss and persuade them that tonight would be a good night to clear Heritage completely?"

Even though Hannibal couldn't see it, Will shrugged. He could hear the echo in the garage, and the phone was dropping out. But it cleared once Hannibal was in the car and out on the streets. "I'll give it a shot, but don't count on it," he offered. "The boss doesn't like down time."

"Perhaps if you tell him of the increased police activity in the area, he will see the wisdom in suspending business for the evening," Hannibal suggested urgently. 

"I'll put the word out; that's pretty much all I can do. Some of us are more afraid of our pimps than of the cops." 

"But you, personally, will stay off the streets?" Hannibal wanted clarification, for his own satisfaction, for the sake of his own distraction.

"Yeah, of course I will. You asked me to." Will stroked his thumb over the phone screen as he hung up.

_-_-_

Hannibal was off the phone by the time the cruisers arrived at the Dolarhyde residence. It was a quiet looking three-story house, but no car was in sight. Hannibal checked his watch, and sighed. Perhaps Mr. Dolarhyde wasn't home from work yet. Walking up the small sidewalk, he couldn't have told you why he got chills, but from the uneasy looks shared between Price and Zeller, he apparently wasn't the only one picking up on it. Maybe it was just cop instinct, getting jumpy and twitchy, but he didn't think so. 

Making a fist, he pounded on the door, clearly audible, three times. Then he called out. "Mr. Francis Dolarhyde! Baltimore city police, we would like to speak with you." He waited, heard no response in the house, and pounded three times again. "Mr. Dolarhyde!"

"Just a minute!" It was a woman's voice, and there was a strange tapping sound that preceded her approach to the door. 

Hannibal turned back while they were waiting. Both Price and Zeller were looking up at the attic window. "I thought--"

"Yeah, me too." Jimmy Price nodded up at the window. "I thought I saw somebody up there, but whatever I'm seeing, it's not moving. Probably just junk or something. If it was somebody, they'd have to move." 

Hannibal looked up, following their gaze, and all he could see was a darkish blob in the window, backlit by the sun. The front door opened, and it revealed a small black woman, holding a cane in her left hand and leaning against the doorframe with her right. "Can I help you?" she asked, focused on some middle-distance. Hannibal realized she was blind. 

"My name is Detective Hannibal Lecter, and we have some questions for Mr. Dolarhyde," he explained. "May we come in?" He figured this was the girlfriend that Will had mentioned to him, but that was privileged information he'd gotten from Will. "Do you know where he is?" 

"He isn't home today, Detective Lecter. He's off making some deliveries for the company, and I'm house sitting while he's out, just in case," she explained.

Hannibal consulted his notebook. "You both work for Gateway?"

Reba nodded. "Yes, we do. I work in the development dark room--doesn't bother me any, and the film doesn't get exposed. Francis works in the home movie division, doing digital transfers from old films." 

Jimmy looked curiously at the blind woman. "Anyone still make home movies today?"

Brian rolled his eyes. "Probably preservation," he pointed out. "People did used to have these things called video cameras, and they recorded images on this ribbon called film…" 

The squabbling voices faded as Hannibal walked back towards his car. His phone was out, and he was texting Will. _Dolarhyde is not home. We are sending over someone to his workplace; do you know where that is? Were you aware his girlfriend was blind?_

The answering text was not long in coming. _Today's Thursday, right? He's out of town until Saturday, he makes a run to DC on Thursday nights for Gateway something-or-other. You might find Reba at the house later, but don't scare her, Hannibal. They just started dating. And no, I didn't know. WG_

Hannibal nodded to himself, and dialed information. "Gateway Corporation, please." He waited while he was connected to the company's switchboard, and waited again until someone answered.

"Hello, Gateway Corporation, may I help you?"

"I hope so. My name is Detective Hannibal Lecter, and I work for the Baltimore City Police Department. I was wondering, could I speak to Mr. Francis Dolarhyde, please?"

"One moment please." Hannibal was put on hold, and the music was less soothing and more irritating. Luckily, he did not have to wait long. "Detective Lecter, I'm sorry, but Mr. Dolarhyde is not in today. Could I take a message or send you to his voicemail?"

"No, no need to do that, thank you. But, can you tell me, do you have a young lady named Reba working for you? I do not know the last name, I'm sorry." 

Another pause, but thankfully, no music. Just keystrokes. "Yes, we do have a Reba McClane working for us in the developing department. But she's not in today, she's taken vacation days and will not be back until Monday. Is there anything else we can do to help you today?"

"No, thank you for your trouble." He leaned into his car, and saw that the warrant had just come through. Ripping it off at the base, he folded it up carefully and stuck it in his pocket. Then he waved Zeller over. "Dolarhyde is out of town until Saturday," he called as the other detectives approached. "I spoke to the people at Gateway and they verified he is not working today, and a coworker verified that Miss McClane here had taken vacation days until Monday."

"We asked about the car," Brian reported. "But she says Dolarhyde has his car and is supposed to be on a work-related trip to DC. We're going in." Zeller handed Hannibal the camera so he could inspect the evidence. "The warrant's on the way; it'll be here within fifteen minutes." 

"The warrant is here," Hannibal corrected, handing it over. Hannibal followed Zeller and Price back to the front door, where the woman named Reba was still standing. "I'm sorry about this, ma'am."

_-_-_

Will's phone trilled with a text message, and when he checked it, Alleycat's picture popped up. He swiped it to get the text. _Will? Where are you? I think there's somebody follow--_

The text cut off mid-send, as if she'd been interrupted. Alyssa Alleycat was one of his closer friends, and he didn't stop to think. He simply locked Winston in Hannibal's office and locked the front door behind him as he tore off to find Alyssa. _Dammit, Alleycat, I told you not to work tonight!_ He sent the text and fumbled it back to the home screen, dialing her number as he pelted down the sidewalk. 

Why the fuck had he promised not to work? If he'd been on the street, he might've been there already. Alleycat worked about five blocks above him, and it was taking way too long to get there. There were no cabs in sight, there were no rides around, and so he kept running and dialing, getting her voicemail and getting more and more panicked the whole time.

His foot hit a puddle and he skidded. He was mystified at first, and then he realized what he'd just stepped in. His phone went sailing, shattering on the pavement

_-_-_

 

Reba McClane was still blocking the doorway as Hannibal and Zeller mounted the porch. "Is that your shoes I hear squeaking, Detective Lecter?"

"Yes, it is," Hannibal answered, stepping forward but not offering a hand. "I'm sorry to say this, but we must ask you to step out of the way and join us on the first floor." 

"Do you have a warrant?" She asked, arms crossing over her chest.

"I realize that it is not in Braille, but we can provide you with a verbal copy of it if you request," Hannibal answered quietly, offering her a paper copy of the warrant. It was still warm from the printer in the car. "A Braille copy will be made available to you at the first possible convenience," he added quickly. "We were not aware of your handicap before our arrival."

Reba took it and put it in her purse. "I'll have my lawyer look it over," is all she said, and she tapped her way over to the sofa and sat down. "I don't understand how you can get a warrant for D's house when he hasn't even done anything wrong." 

"He is, at the moment, a person of interest in the Ripper case," he explained quietly. "There is evidence that points towards Mr. Dolarhyde, and we would simply like to speak to him. In his absence, we have obtained a warrant that allows us to search this house and anything on its premises, including worksheds, outside buildings, and cars."

"D's got the car, there's no workshed out back, and the only doors that lock in here are the front door, the back door, and the attic door. He says there's no key for the attic, keeps saying he's gonna get a locksmith in and drill out the locks, maybe replace them," Reba explained. 

"To clarify," Hannibal repeated. "You have free run of any room in the house except for the attic, which we found bolted and locked. You say the key is lost. If there is no key, we will be forced to break the door down."

"I don't know where the attic key is," Reba re-stated clearly. "D said it's lost, but it's the only room I can't get into," she reported. "Now it's your turn, Detective. Tell me what is going on." 

Hannibal pointed towards Zeller and indicated he go up the stairs to check the door for dangers. "Mr. Dolarhyde's car matches the partial tag and description we have in evidence for one of a series of murders in Baltimore," he explained. "We only wished to talk to him about the car, and his whereabouts on several dates." 

"Door's clear!" Zeller shouted. "Just locked!" 

"Wait for me," Hannibal called, and he put his hand on Reba's. "Please remain here." 

Hannibal got up from the sofa, and headed up the stairs to the attic. His gun was still in the holster, and he drew it just in case. He pointed to Zeller with three fingers up, and Zeller gave him a softly whispered countdown. 

"3… 2… 1… POLICE!"

Hannibal kicked the door twice before it gave in, splintering in the doorframe. His gun dropped as soon as he saw what was going on, and he almost wished the other detectives hadn't come up with him. 

_-_-_

Will's hand was covering his mouth, and he was trying to hold in the sobs and the screams. What was left of Alyssa was spread over the alley. There had been no mild mutilations this time; this time, it looked like she'd been utterly _savaged_. Limbs were tossed to all sides, her torso was torn open, blood stood like a lake around her body, and Will realized he was standing in her blood. Stumbling backwards, leaving his broken phone behind, Will turned around and started running back to the only safe place he knew--Hannibal's house. He could call Hannibal from the house, Jesus God, Alyssa. 

He stumbled as he ran, pressing his fists against his eyes. "No, I don't want to see it, no, please, I don't want to!" But his mind was pitiless, flashing back and forwards until Alyssa was no longer a body but still alive. His mind showed him the attacker throwing her phone to the side, the text sending by accident. He could feel himself in there, tearing at her with his hands and his nails before pulling out a knife. The knife tore through flesh, severed tendons, and his strength tore bones from her body as he dismembered her. 

He _enjoyed_ it.

His arms burned; the muscles loved the exertion of tearing her limb from limb, and the splash of blood was hot and immediate.

"No!" He found himself curled on the pavement, and he dragged himself back up to his feet and stumbled off again. The heels of his hands tried to dig through his eyes to reach those images, but all he could do was weep.

The tears blinded him to almost everything, including the dark shadow that followed him.

_-_-_

There was a film projector in the middle of the room, but that was the least weird thing. The walls were covered with photographs--of Will Graham. Some were taken with a telephoto lens, some were selfie-types, some were taken during intimate moments. There did not seem to be a duplicate among them. There were photos of Will walking his dog, photos of Will lounging against brick and mortar walls on 2500 Heritage, photos of Will leaning in cars and talking to johns, photos of Will laughing and chatting with all of the dead prostitutes. 

Photos of Will talking to Hannibal outside the police station. Photos of Will and Hannibal sitting in a booth at Riverlake Diner. More photos, photos of Will walking Winston in Hannibal's neighborhood, in the suit and red tie. Photos of Hannibal's front door closing behind Will.

Zeller let out a low whistle, and Hannibal distinctly heard a yelp of pain as somebody's toes got stomped on. "What!?"

"Shut up, you ass," was the hissed retort. 

Hannibal flipped the switch on the film projector, knowing what he was going to see before he even saw it.

Will and Dolarhyde, having sex. It only ran for a few seconds before it hit the end of the reel, and the room was left brightened by the machine's bare bulb.

He flipped the film off without a word, and looked carefully around the room without looking at his partners. There in the corner was a mannequin, and though he didn't know it for sure, he would have been willing to bet his life that the clothes on the dummy belonged to Will Graham. 

"This is a shrine," Jimmy said, looking around and turning on the overhead light. That just illuminated the photos on the wall even more, and it was obvious that Dolarhyde had been stalking Will--was _obsessed_ by him, even. 

"Oh, no kidding." Zeller kicked Price in the shins. 

Hannibal had wandered over to the farthest wall, and opened the floor-to-ceiling cabinet. "I believe we found our trophies," he said calmly, refusing to let his emotions enter the equation. He was a police officer, he could handle this. He was not going to let the fear slamming through his veins rule him. But it was a struggle; it nearly choked him because all he wanted to do was call Will, text him, _warn him._

The removed flesh was displayed in jars of clear fluid, what Hannibal assumed would be formaldehyde or some other preservation medium. Several tattoos were mounted like art on cedar blocks, and in the center of the display, was a human heart. Jamie Deets', more than likely. 

In the lower shelves of the cabinet were reels of film for the projector, each one labeled with just a date. No need to watch those, though he knew someone would have to before they were logged in as evidence.

He pulled his phone out, meaning to text Will, but to his surprise, Zeller put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it outside, man," he said softly. "This guy's your CI, no need to see all this shit." 

_-_-_

Will shoved the key to Hannibal's front door into the lock, nearly snapping it off as he turned it. As soon as the knob turned, a heavy weight hit Will from behind, and he went spilling into the house. 

Winston was raising ten kinds of hell locked in the office, and Will was trying to get to the door to let him out. Instead, the person on his back was shoving him down against the floor, and he barely had enough room to roll onto his side. 

"Francis!?" He started shoving at Dolarhyde's shoulder and face, but froze when a knife appeared at his throat. "Francis, it's me! It's Graham, what's going on here?"

The knife tip dragged down Will's cheek. "You were so beautiful, Graham." Francis' voice is hoarse with pain and regret. "You were so kind to me when no one else was. Why did you have to betray me like this? You came to his _house_ , you got in his _bed._ You were mine, Graham, and now he's contaminated you." 

Will was barely listening to what Francis was saying, but he quickly realized that he meant _Hannibal._ "No, Francis, listen, please. We're friends. Okay? That's it. He asked for my help with the Ripper case, thought I might know somebody who'd know someone. Then he hired me to do some clerical work. We're not sleeping together!"

"Don't lie to me!" The knife flashed, and a gash opened over Will's eye. "Don't lie to me, Graham, please. I don't want to hurt you."

Pain flared, and then wet heat cascaded down his face. It was shock that gave him power behind his next attack. "Then let me go!" He flailed for a moment, a stray fist landing on Dolarhyde's side, and it dislodged him enough that Will could get to his feet. "I'm not lying to you!"

"Then why are you here? Running here like you think he can save you? He can't save you, Graham. Only I can save you." The knife was bright in the foyer, and Dolarhyde was backlit by the open door. 

It was instant. The light pinged off the razor-sharp knife's edge, and it was almost as if a harp string had been plucked in Will's mind. Everything vibrated and realigned, adrenaline and fight-or-flight kicking in at the same time. There was no flight possible; there was nowhere to fly _to_. That only left fight. He was a different person--a different _animal_ now. Everything was a weapon; teeth and nails and feet were just as good as blades, and the blood sang to him as it plinked onto the floor.

Dolarhyde lunged at Will, and Will began to fight for his life. He swung desperately, feeling the knife nick him in a hundred different places. Each slice was pain and fire, feeling like his skin was peeling back and leaving him raw. Coppery hot blood filled his nose, his mouth, his tongue lying metallic and stale in his mouth from a bitten cheek--no, that was a stab! He had not felt the blade slide into his face at all.

He was groping in the dark for a weapon; the light from the door and the windows was a blinding flare that he couldn't see through. All he could see were outlines, dark shapes that moved like winged shadows. He couldn't calm enough to remember what he had seen coming into and out of Hannibal's house, until he stumbled into a mirror and a table.

He reoriented; this was familiar territory to him! He should not be the one on defense. He threw the table to the floor, a malicious grin glinting off his teeth when Francis fell over it. Will's hands found one of the statuettes in Hannibal's foyer, a bronze elk or moose, something antlered. Will grabbed it by the antlers and swung it hard towards Dolarhyde's hulking outline. It connected with Dolarhyde's wrist, and he heard the crazed man scream as something snapped. Will dropped the elk and dove for the knife, sliding in his own blood as he wrapped his fingers around it. 

Victorious.

Francis bellowed as Will armed himself, and from his back pocket produced another knife, a smaller filleting knife used to remove tattoos and flesh, and stabbed forward. Will blocked it, barely, snarling in fury.

If he'd been an animal, his teeth would've been snapping.

_-_-_

Hannibal waited until he was outside Dolarhyde's house before dialing Will's number. It went directly to voicemail, and the fear Hannibal refused to feel was growing. A second, and then a third call went straight to voicemail, and texts went unanswered.

He didn't bother going back into the house. Instead, he slammed the driver's door shut, snapped on his seat belt, and gunned the engine. He was out of the driveway before Zeller even got out of the front door. 

During the whole drive, he was frantically trying to reach Will. He left only one message: "Will, it's Hannibal. Keep the doors locked, and do not leave the house until I am there. You are in danger." 

After that, it was a constant repeat of dial and re-dial, dial and re-dial, until he was ready to throw the smartphone through the windshield. 

Traffic was thin on the streets, and for that, Hannibal was thankful. He only needed to use the lights and the siren once, to clear a four-way stop, but otherwise, he was able to pass the slower cars and make the time he needed to get to his house. 

As he skidded to a stop in front of his home, the first thing he heard was Winston barking like a hellhound, and that set his nerves entirely on edge. The second--and last--thing he noticed was blood on his front door, and blood dripping slowly onto the welcome mat. 

He didn't even stop to think, or to pull his gun. Hannibal charged ahead quickly, almost losing his footing in the foyer. He could not take it in at first; Dolarhyde was looming over Will, who had fallen onto the floor in the small but spreading pool of blood. They were both covered in nicks and cuts, and Hannibal saw the knife in Dolarhyde's fist descending towards Will's outstretched arms. 

He bellowed; he felt the bullish roar vibrating in his chest as he launched himself at Dolarhyde, landing on the man's broad back. Dolarhyde had to be a bodybuilder; Hannibal could feel the muscles straining to throw him off, and he was _enraged._ To desecrate his home with blood, to have a friend attacked in a safe space was unspeakable; Hannibal became a monster to avenge it. His elbow wrapped around Dolarhyde's neck and twisted; the crack was loud. 

_-_-_

He lost his footing. Will had been trying to gain some kind of ground, make it to Hannibal's office to let Winston out, maybe make it upstairs somehow. 

But the constant dripping of his blood was weakening him, and he hadn't even realized it. It was wearying him to swing the knife, and both he and Dolarhyde were bleeding from multiple cuts and stabs. There was one in Will's shoulder, one in the side of his face--that was one was going to need stitches--and he'd fought back by mauling Francis in the face. His nails had opened up long furrows on his cheekbones, and the knife had stabbed into his leg and his ankle. Francis was limping, but not nearly enough. 

Then Will slipped. His foot shot out from under him as he stepped in his own blood puddle, and landed on the floor with a resounding smack. His hip ached from the impact, and he wondered briefly if he'd dislocated it. But before he could even stop and take stock of the situation, Francis was on top of him, the fillet knife descending towards his face. 

Crossing his wrists over his face, Will prayed he was going to be able to hold out long enough to get back onto his feet. That didn't look like it was going to happen, because the knife was nearly pressing against the tip of his nose. The animal in him was dying as slowly as he was, and Will's last thought was _please, don't hurt my dog._

Then suddenly, Dolarhyde was gone, disappeared. There was a hellish roar coming from a male throat, and Will realized it was _Hannibal_ making that noise. Dragging himself up to his knees, he saw Dolarhyde reaching, floundering as Hannibal rode his shoulders, and Will was desperate. Terror filled him because he could see the knife heading towards Hannibal's face, and as he reared up, knife in his hands, he heard a loud crack as he plunged the knife in Dolarhyde's stomach and yanked hard. _Pretend it's a fish, pull back until you feel the skin give, and keep it steady._

_-_-_

The scream was louder. Will had lunged from his spot on the floor, knife held out at the ready. Even as Hannibal landed on Dolarhyde's back, the weight jacked his head and back into an arch, exposing his belly. Will struck, driving the knife deep into Dolarhyde's belly and ripping back with all his might. 

A gruesome smile spread across Dolarhyde's abdomen as his body sagged. Hannibal landed on the floor behind the dead man, letting him fall while he looked at Will. Will had dropped to his knees on the floor, hands covered in blood. The knife fell out of his grip, and Hannibal held out his hand.

Will clasped it without a word, letting Hannibal pull him to his feet. Before he could speak, he found himself wrapped in Hannibal's arms, on the receiving end of a heartfelt embrace. "I'm glad you're all right."

"I'm not all right, Hannibal," Will whispered, clinging like a lifeline to the man who'd saved his life. "I'm not all right at all."

_-_-_

Hannibal looked over at the couch where Will Graham sat, wrapped in an orange shock blanket. His hands and face were still covered in blood, though the gash over his eye had been taped up by the EMTs. Will's other wounds had been stitched up on site; Will had insisted on it. Both his shoulder and his face had been stitched together carefully, and the EMT was fussing over the last bandages and pieces of tape.

The knife Will had used on Dolarhyde was in an evidence box that Zeller had already initialed, and Hannibal shook his head at Jimmy. "I'll finish the statement tomorrow, and give it to you typed and signed." 

Not even close to procedure, he was about to complain when his partner just shook his head. "Let him go, Z." 

Hannibal had already walked away, and sat across from Will. The other man was focused on his bloody hands, and Hannibal reached out to pull the blanket together under his chin so he was cocooned. "Will?"

"Hannibal." He looked up, meeting the detective's eyes. Hannibal was just as bloody as he was, though much less injured; Francis had not gone down easily, even with the two of them. Hannibal had told him about the attic, couldn't believe that Francis had been the Ripper, couldn't believe that there was a shrine to him that was even now being photographed and carefully dismantled for evidence back at the Dolarhyde house.

"You should know that what happened here is not your fault." Hannibal wanted to find the right words to take the weight off Will's shoulders, but had no idea what they might be. "You were nice. You tried to be a friend to someone who obviously needed one. What he did in the name of that friendship is no reflection on you." 

"Friendship?" The word was bitter in Will's mouth, and it spilled out to flavor his speech. "That wasn't friendship, Hannibal. That?" He waved a hand to include everything about their surroundings. "That was obsession. It's unhealthy, and it never ends well." Despite the blanket around his shoulders, he was shivering. 

Hannibal saw it, and took off his jacket. He draped it over the blanket, tucking it close around Will's shoulders. "Yes, it was. And it is still not your fault. You did not cause this."

"Didn't I?" Will pulled Hannibal's jacket closer when he pulled the blanket in, and he took a deep breath, taking unconscious comfort from Hannibal's closeness. 

"Certainly not. You've been nice and kind to me, we have cultivated a friendship, and I do not have a shrine to you anywhere in my home," Hannibal pointed out, but he didn't take it any further because he sensed this might not be the avenue to go down at this particular moment. Instead, he switched tracks just a bit. "Friendship is no guarantee of anything except friendship. You were under no obligations to Mr. Dolarhyde, no matter what he seemed to believe." 

"Except when I was bought and paid for," Will reminded, and the bitterness was back in his tone. "Let's not forget that's what began this whole entire mess. Francis was looking to buy some kindness and he happened to find me. And when he didn't find it in other people, he murdered them." 

"Yes; so what? How many other customers have you had?" When it looked like Will was going to provide an answer, he hurried along. "I mean that strictly rhetorically; no response is necessary, please." A sigh. "But think of all your customers, and then how many of them turned out to be psychotic murderers?"

"That I know of? One." Will just sighed. "You're being logical, and I appreciate it, but the fact remains, he killed people because of me. Because he was obsessed with me, because he couldn't have me for his own. So he tried to find me in other people, and he failed. So he killed them, and he took the parts of them that didn't remind him of me and got rid of them. No tattoos, so they couldn't have them. No birthmarks, they couldn't have them either." 

Hannibal knew all that already, and he realized Will had intuited it from what had happened and what he'd read in the files. "Will--"

"I'm done, Hannibal. No more moonlighting for the police. I can't. I can't do it. I can't have this in my head all the time." Abrupt change of subject, because anything was easier to talk about than Francis Dolarhyde. "No more consulting. I wanted to help, but the price is just too high."

"If that's what you want." Hannibal couldn't argue, because he'd seen firsthand what even peripheral involvement had done to his friend, and didn't want worse to happen next time. But he was regretful that he would not get to see as much of him in the future, if they were not working together. 

"It's what I _need_ ," Will stressed. "Maybe you can live with a killer in your head, but I can't." He dropped the orange blanket to the floor and put Hannibal's jacket on before wrapping himself back up. He still shivered, but not as badly now that the warmth was inside the blanket and not the outside.

Hannibal moved to sit beside Will, legs almost touching, so that his body heat radiated towards Will. "You would not have a killer in your head. I would be there to help you, Will. To do whatever you need to help clear the evil from your mind." His eyes wandered to the blood-matted curls, over the bandaged eye, and he put his hand on the back of Will's head, drawing it down to rest on his shoulder. "You are my friend, and I hope that I am yours."

Will closed his eyes at the comforting touch, and almost crowded into Hannibal's side. "You are. Probably my only friend when it comes down to it." 

The EMTs came back over to look at Will one last time, and Zeller jerked his head at Hannibal, asking him to come over without having to actually _ask._ "Excuse me, Will." He left Will in the capable hands of the EMTs, and approached his partners. "Yes?"

"We're finishing up here, and uh, you can't be here any longer," Price said bluntly. "You're part of the investigation now, and you're involved with the killing of a suspect, so you and Mr. Graham need to--" Jimmy hooked a thumb at the door. "Get out. Book a hotel for a week or so. You'll have to replace the locks, cause they drilled out the front door. But they'll be done in a few days and then they'll have cleaners in. Come by tomorrow, and the uniforms outside will come in and you can pack a bag." He looked over his shoulder, and Zeller had already packed a small travel bag for Hannibal. 

"Of course." Hannibal had been expecting that, and he shook both his partners' hands. "Gentlemen, you know where to find me." He took the bag gratefully as he left.

As he drew closer to Will again, he heard Will fussing with the EMT. "I don't need any more stitches."

"It's a deep gash, Mr. Graham, really close to your eye. I really think--"

"Just give me the form."

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

"Yes." Will scrawled his signature on the form signifying that yes, he'd refused to take the ambulance to the hospital and was satisfied with the on-site treatment he'd received. "Thank you."

Hannibal waited until the EMTs had reclaimed their blanket, and approached Will again. "Shall I take you home?"

"Yes, please. They've already got Winston in a cruiser outside, we'll have to pick him up on the way out." Will replied, making absolutely no move to give Hannibal his jacket back despite the fact he was swallowed up in it. "You got a place to stay for the night?"

"I've been advised to book a hotel room for a week or so," Hannibal answered, not really answering the question at all.

"You want to stay with me? Until you get a place booked?" Will offered. There was just the one bed, which would need clean sheets, but he didn't mind sleeping on the fold-out couch for a night. Not after everything Hannibal had done for him. Saving his life and everything.

That was a complicated question that Hannibal had been hoping to not answer. He certainly would like to stay the night with Will, but he didn't think that was what was being offered. He was certain, in fact, what was being offered was a simple bed for the night. "If you're certain it won't put you out." 

"Wouldn't have offered it otherwise. I don't want to be alone tonight, Hannibal." He'd been looking for a slicker way to say that, a smoother way to put out the invitation, but his headache was getting worse and he didn't have the time.

"Then I would be delighted." Hannibal took Will out to the car, opening the door and making sure he was settled comfortably in the passenger seat. From the trunk, he took a blanket from the police-issued emergency kit, and passed it over to Will once he was in the car. While Will was covering himself up, Hannibal turned the heat on and made sure the vents pointed towards his shivering passenger. "It's just shock," he said quietly. "You'll be warm soon enough." 

"You can borrow some of my clothes, but." Will gave a slight grin, all he was capable of. "I think they'll be a little tight."

"That won't be necessary; one of my co-workers packed an overnight bag for me, and I'll be able to return in the morning to get the rest of what I need." He patted Will's leg in what he hoped was a friendly manner. "Don't worry about me, Will. Worry about yourself." 

"I'm sorry that you had to get involved like this," Will apologized. "I didn't know he was following me. I should have." 

"No. As I said, you were not responsible for anything that happened tonight. Francis Dolarhyde is not on your conscience." His could take it; as an officer of the law, he had more than one dead body to his record; Dolarhyde would not make him lose much sleep. 

"No? His blood is literally on my hands, and I think the fact that I disemboweled a man kind of makes it my responsibility," Will pointed out, and shivered one more time. "Pull over, please."

Hannibal did not need to ask why; he simply did as Will asked. He put the hazard blinkers on and rolled to a stop on the side of the road. 

Will barely got the blanket out of the way and the door open before he was vomiting. He stumbled out of the car, bracing his hands on his knees, and taking deep breaths of the cool night air. He heaved again, and then a third time, but they were both dry after the first bout.

Hannibal had walked around to Will's side of the car, and his hand was rubbing small circles on the small of his friend's back. "Would you like to lie down in the back with Winston?" he asked, because the dog was sitting in the back seat as if waiting.

"Yes, please." He pulled the blanket around himself again, and was thankful that he'd not gotten Hannibal's jacket stained with vomit. Hannibal opened the back door for him, and he climbed into the back. "Hey, boy."

Winston moved to the far side, lying down and offering himself as a pillow. Will put his head down on Winston's warm fur, and sighed. Hannibal's hands pulled the blanket up around Will's shoulders, and then he petted the dog before getting back into the driver's seat. 

"Sorry about that." 

"Not at all. It's quite a common reaction to stress and shock," Hannibal reassured him. He suddenly longed for his kitchen; making Will a pot of chicken soup sounded like a wonderful idea, but he quickly dismissed it. Too much coddling.

"I'm sorry about your house," Will apologized again. "I didn't mean for it to become a crime scene." 

"Detective Zeller informed me that I will have to replace my locks, but I will make certain you have the new key. Aside from that minor inconvenience, all that matters is that you and Winston are unharmed." Which was nothing but the truth; next to Will's life, the house meant very little.

"Minor inconvenience." Lying down in the back seat, his eyes closed, Will could feel the exhaustion threatening to crash down on top of him. "You're a hell of a liar, Hannibal Lecter. But I'll take you at your word this time." Because honestly, it had to be more than a _minor inconvenience_ to be kicked out of your own home because a crazed serial killer attacked your prostitute-slash-best-friend in your living room and you broke his neck. 

"What is so amusing?" Hannibal had been watching Will in the rearview mirror, and for the life of him could not figure out why Will was smiling.

"Oh, I was just thinking that your definition of minor inconvenience and my definition of minor inconvenience are vastly different," he answered. "If I were kicked out of my house, I'd be in a very bad mood."

"A house is a place filled with things that can be replaced. People cannot be. You cannot be replaced," Hannibal explained. "I am quite pleased that you're safe, and next to that, a place full of things is less important."

"I'm not going back to work." Out of the blue. "I'm quitting. My boss won't like it, but he'll realize it's for the best. Once he gets wind I'm part of the murder investigation, he'll be glad to see me in the wind. After Alyssa…." There was no way he could go back to that. No. Not with what he couldn't get out of his head.

Hannibal could not explain to anyone why he was elated to hear that. But he was; he actually returned the smile that he saw in the rearview mirror. "Good for you. I think that is probably the best decision that you could make." He pulled into the parking spot designated for Will's apartment. "You know, we were meant to have dinner here anyway."

"Fuck, was that today?" Will dragged himself upright and opened the back door, letting Winston run to the bushes to do his business. He levered himself out, and leaned against the trunk as he patted himself down and handed Hannibal the key. "Go ahead and shower first, I'll stay out here with him until he's done." 

Hannibal accepted the keys gratefully, and he squeezed Will's shoulder in passing. "Don't be too long." 

The shadows and the night would hide the blood if anyone looked out, but Will knew the quicker he got inside, the better. "I know." 

Hannibal put the blanket back in the trunk, and got out his bag before disappearing into the building. 

Will winced when he dragged his hands over his face, blood flaking off and the bandage tape pulling at his skin. "You're a mess, Graham," he said softly. "You're not ever gonna impress that man like this." 

_-_-_

Hannibal needed little to impress him. The shower was hot and steady with decent water pressure, and he watched the bloody rinse circling down the drain. His clothes were stripped to the side, waiting to be turned over to evidence, and he was going to have to remind Will of the same. But he truly did not care at the moment. 

He emerged from Will's shower completely clean, drying his hair and tying a towel around his waist before rummaging through his bag. There were, thankfully, a pair of silk pajamas, a pair of black slacks and a white shirt for tomorrow. Not quite his usual attire, but it would suffice for having been packed in a hurry. His toiletries were in there; looked like Brian had just swept the counter for the necessities and dropped them in, and the only things he fished out were his comb, his deodorant, and his moisturizer. After a moment, he returned that to the bag, and kept out only his comb and his deodorant. 

He'd just gotten dressed by the time he heard Will making it up the steps, and Winston was right on his heels. He rather missed his blue bathrobe, but he was glad to have what he had. "There's a bag in the bathroom; put your clothes in there. It will be required as evidence," he reminded kindly. "My jacket as well." 

"Right." He hadn't even thought about it. He started pulling his clothes off on the way to the shower, as always, and paused halfway through, remembering that he had a guest. "Sorry." He closed himself off in the bedroom, and stripped down in a hurry. His clothes went into the same bag as Hannibal's, and the shower was already humid and inviting when he stepped into it. Four scrubbings and three shampoos later, Will felt like he'd washed all the blood off. The water was running clear, at any rate, even though he still felt the tacky stuff still on him. 

He hurt. He was sore all over, even after a hot shower, and he didn't even want to think about how he was going to feel in the morning. Digging through the medicine cabinet by the sink, he found a nearly full bottle of Vicodin from when he'd had his wisdom teeth removed, and he almost dropped the bottle. Instead of trying to open it again, he just left it on the counter, tidied up his dirty clothes, tucked his bloody ones in the evidence bag, and made an effort to drop his towel into the basket as well. 

He got dressed, in deference to his guest, in a white t-shirt and shorts, and took the pain meds from the counter. 

Stripping the bed made him groan, and he cursed a little when he realized the gash over his eye was leaking. A pit-stop in the bathroom patched him up pretty quickly, and then he finished making the bed with clean sheets. 

By the time he emerged from the bedroom, he was exhausted, and he dropped onto the couch beside Hannibal without a word. 

Hannibal had not said a word to Will while he was showering, or clunking around in the bedroom, but he was curious. But he made himself remain quiet and still, paging through one of the _Field and Stream_ magazines sitting on the coffee table. It did not keep his attention long; he was more content studying his surroundings.

The books on the bookshelf were incredibly eclectic. Predominately non-fiction, yes, with a trend towards biographies. He could understand the appeal of biographies to a man with Will's talents; subsuming yourself into another life that you could close off with the turn of a page. But there were also old textbooks, on everything from algebra theory to profiling basics, and he ran his fingertips over the spines of the books as he browsed. There were some classic _National Geographic_ issues in the bookcase, though he couldn't discern an immediate reason why they'd been kept, they were obviously well-leafed favorites. 

The fiction was equally eclectic; there was everything from Sherlock Holmes to James Patterson, and nothing looked any more well-read than the others. The only books that really looked read were a volume labeled _Dog Lover's Home Veterinary Care_ and a leather-bound copy of _Last of the Mohicans_. Curious, he pulled the hardcover down and carried it back to the sofa, and sat down as he gingerly cradled the book. 

He opened the frontispiece, and ran his fingers over the dedication. _To Will: Your young man, who gathers his learning from books and can measure what he knows by the page, my conceit that his knowledge, like his legs, outruns that of his fathers' but, where experience is the master, the scholar is made to know the value of years, and respects them accordingly._

Will flopped beside him, and Hannibal wordlessly turned the book towards him. "My father gave me that book after my mother left. He said it was a warning not to get cocky and think you know everything about life. I think he was bitter." 

Hannibal accepted that explanation, and closed the book, resting his hands on it. "You should be resting." Will offered the Vicodin bottle to Hannibal without a word. Hannibal inspected the label, recognizing the name of the oral surgeon. "Technically you are not supposed to share medication." But when Will fixed him with a venomous glare, he relented. "However, I think in this case, an exception can be made." He easily removed the lid from the bottle and shook out one tablet for himself, and passed the open bottle to Will. 

Will squinted at the label, shook out two--it _did_ say _take one or two tablets four times daily as needed_ \--and dry-swallowed them. "Kitchen's through there if you need something to drink." Maybe it made him a shitty host, but. Comfortable couch, battered body, and Hannibal's warm body heat made him completely unwilling to get up. 

Hannibal actually had no intention of taking the pill. Instead, he took the bottle back and casually slid the pill back in before screwing the lid back on. He had no complaints with Will sitting so close to him, and he draped his arm over the back of the sofa, inviting him in a little closer. "Tell me about yourself, Will." 

Will sighed. "I grew up with my father. Mostly in Louisiana, around New Orleans and Shreveport, all around that area. Learned boats and engines from him, fly-fishing too. He died when I was twenty-two, about thirteen years ago. I moved to Baltimore, I'd hoped to get into college and get a teaching degree. That didn't happen. I tried teaching myself, auditing classes occasionally, and that didn't work out too great either. Eventually I drifted for a while, and caught an anchor hooking when I was twenty-six and somebody offered me a thousand dollars for a blowjob because he thought I was sixteen." 

Hannibal twitched. He hadn't really thought about hearing the details of what had happened, but he was curious as to why that seemed like a valid life choice. Only he didn't know how to ask without getting far more information than he actually wanted. He settled for, "That must have been confusing." His fingers found their way into Will's hair, stroking gently. 

Will didn't complain. "You have no idea. I've never been rich, I've never been poor enough that I had to wonder where my next meal was coming from. I own a dog, which a lot of people couldn't afford." He shrugged, shifting closer to Hannibal's warmth. "But that kind of money can turn a kid's head. Even a kid who's not really a kid. About a week went by until I was _approached_ by the local pimp." He sketched air quotes. "Never had a chance to say no if I wanted to keep working. The money was great for a while, and I put a lot of it away. Invested it, lost most of it, got most of it back. Then the street percentages started changing, but I didn't argue. The money wasn't quite as good, but by that time?" A shrug. "Nothing else to do. So I just… tried to be the best at what I did. Like I said before, I wanted to think I was helping people. I thought I was helping Francis, too." A hard swallow, and a hard, bitter smile twisted his lips. "I thought he just needed someone to accept him, to like him, give him confidence in himself so he didn't have to buy a hooker just to feel like he had a friend in the world." 

"You could look at things like you did your job, perhaps too well." Hannibal realized perhaps that was not the thing to do. "You were his friend, no matter what else happened." He kept stroking Will's hair, not really sure why he was doing it--or why he was being allowed to do it. "He came to you to tell you about his girlfriend, didn't he?"

"How is she? How's Reba doing?" Will turned his head into Hannibal's gentle strokes, and closed his eyes. "I don't think I'm going to meet her."

"Probably a good choice," he agreed. It was going to be bad enough for her--and Will--finding out everything, and that reminded Hannibal of an unpleasant fact. "There won't be a trial, you realize, but." He sighed, and fought the somewhat insane urge to press his lips to Will's hair. "Someone will be logging in all the evidence. And some of that evidence is a series of film reels." 

If Will's eyes hadn't already been closed, he'd have closed them at that, just so the clear crash of his hopes wasn't visible. "I don't need to guess what's on those reels, do I?"

Hannibal shook his head. "I saw the last few seconds of one of them; no, you don't."

"You saw." Will sat up at that, and then pulled away from Hannibal entirely to go into the kitchen. Hannibal had seen. He couldn't even finish the thought in his own head, though the images marched through clear of impediment. And he knew exactly what would be seen on those other reels. 

He made a beeline for the cabinet over the stove, and brought down the bottle of bourbon that pretty much lived there. He didn't even bother pouring; he drank two fingers straight out of the bottle, and went for a second drink when the bottle got pulled out of his hands. The sound of pouring echoed behind him, and a glass appeared in front of him. More pouring, and Will turned around to see Hannibal downing a drink of his own, then refilling the glass. Will did the same, and held his glass out for a silent refill. "I'm sorry. I wasn't ready to hear that," he apologized.

Hannibal poured, and waved with the neck of the bottle. "I'm sorry. I felt you had the right to know, and that you should know before it became semi-public record." 

"Anytime you want to hit the sack, go ahead. I'm gonna… be up a while." That was an understatement. 

Hannibal shrugged. "You shouldn't be drinking on top of the Vicodin; someone's got to make sure you don't end up having your stomach pumped," he pointed out.

There was no real need to tell Hannibal he'd had nights worse than this. He just downed the bourbon and poured himself a third glass. "How about we talk about you," he temporized. 

Talking about himself was not one of Hannibal's strong suits, but he was willing to try if it meant Will settled back down. "Certainly, if that's what you like."

"More than chatting about my questionable choices and wondering what, exactly, it was you saw." 

That was fair enough, and Hannibal honestly regretted he'd brought the subject up. "I didn't mean to upset you, Will," he said softly, staring off to the side and focusing on the dog's head magnets on Will's refrigerator instead of on Will himself. "I thought it would be better if you heard it from me, instead of on television or if anything was leaked." 

"Hey, you don't live the life I lived without knowing something is going to bite you in the ass." Another bitter smile, and he grunted. "I just wish it had been something else. I'd rather you'd seen the photographs than the live show, and I hate you even know there was a live show, much less how many times." 

"If it helps, I saw very little before the reel ended," Hannibal offered helpfully. "Only enough to be able to identify the two of you. Nothing more. But because of my involvement in the denouement of the case, I will not be allowed access to any further evidence. What is on those reels stays between you, Mr. Dolarhyde, and the tech that screens and logs the film in." And he would make certain that whomever logged it in kept their mouth shut. 

Will shook his head, and let Hannibal lead him back over to the couch, bottle and glass in hand. Hannibal sat down first, and Will sat beside him, making sure there was at least an arm length between them. "So where were you born, Hannibal?" he asked, deliberately deflecting attention back onto his guest. 

"Lithuania, on my family's estate," Hannibal answered honestly. "I have a twin brother, his name is Nigel and he lives currently in London. Our younger sister, Mischa, lives there with him. My parents were killed when my brother and I were young and Mischa just a child, and we were sent to live with my uncle Robertas and my aunt, Lady Murasaki. Nigel did not flourish in Japan, and so he was sent to school in London and that is where he has remained. Mischa joined him there many years ago, and we speak weekly. Though I am the older twin, by twelve minutes, I abdicated in favor of my brother."

"Abdicated?" Will paused with the drink halfway to his mouth. "Abdicated?" he repeated. "As in King of Edward VIII, I abdicate my throne in favor of the woman I love?"

"Yes." Hannibal grimaced. "Nigel is, technically, Nigellus, Count Lekteris, a minor title of nobility retained on my mother's side. As her twin sons, we are the sole inheritors of the Lekteris family title, lands, and fortunes. We have all retained the Anglicized name of Lecter, but Nigel and I are both considered Lord Lekteris, and Mischa is Lady Mischa Lekteris, and if she has children, it is through her bloodline and not mine nor Nigel's that the title will pass." He sighed. "None of us have returned to the ancestral home, though through the rights of nobility we retain both our citizenship and ownership of the castle."

"Castle. You were raised in a _castle._ " Will put the bottle and the glass down on the floor and looked at his… well, maybe they could've been friends. "A count, in fact." 

"And this is why I do not reveal that information," Hannibal pointed out dryly. "It is also why I am quite content with both my siblings dwelling far across the oceans." 

Will laughed. His voice was scratchy, but he laughed anyway. "Good Jesus Christ, Hannibal, that explains everything!" It actually didn't; Hannibal was still so much of a mystery, and yet, it explained _so much._ The clothes, the cooking, the money. "I love it. That's… pretty representative of my fucking life at this point." 

Hannibal scowled. "Perhaps we should leave off talking about our backgrounds," he suggested, slightly needled. He couldn't help it; he shared that history with so few people. No one at his current job knew it, in fact, he was fairly certain that no one in the _country_ actually knew it.

"No, no, Hannibal, no, I'm sorry." Will reached over to touch his arm. "I'm not laughing at you; I think it's pretty damned spectacular, all things considered. I mean, who the hell can say they know actual nobility these days?" He rubbed Hannibal's shoulder gently. "I just… of all the things I imagined, this wasn't even close."

"What did you imagine?" he asked, curious to know what impression he'd given Will. 

"Oh, that you were a _complete_ tight-ass. Maybe OCD," he admitted. "Everything had to be just right; food has to meet a certain standard, and that's why you cook for yourself. Clothes have to fit a certain look, which is why you're always such a sharp dresser. The accent, the way you speak and the way you carry yourself. You're just… you're so different from everyone else."

"So are you," Hannibal said after a moment. "Alone recognizes alone, Will. Your mind isolates you as easily and completely as my upbringing does me. I don't say that it's a good thing or a bad thing, only that it is." 

"I think it's a bad thing." He edged a little closer to Hannibal, really sorry he'd laughed and trying to show his remorse. "People shouldn't be alone. You shouldn't be alone."

"Perhaps I should." Hannibal had brought his hand to his mouth, and now he let it drop to the arm of the chair. "Perhaps we are meant to be alone together." He looked at Will, who could not even stand to be on the same sofa with him. "I don't think any less of you, you realize."

"What?" It took Will a minute to realize what was being referenced, and he straightened back up. "Oh."

"Yes. Everyone is different, and some people certainly will blame you for your choices and think less of you because of what you have done. I am not one of them. Your choices were your choices, and they were the things you had to do to survive. I am no one to judge." 

"I think you're the exception, rather than the rule." Rueful grin, and he wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed his arms. "Hannibal…" 

He straightened his arm along the back of the couch, silently inviting Will back to his side.

With a nod of thanks, Will curled back up against Hannibal's side, head resting on his shoulder. "I didn't want to be alone tonight, and I don't think I could sleep."

"You don't have to sleep. But you do need rest." Hannibal shifted so that Will was tucked close, and he was stroking his hair again. "Try to close your eyes."

"Keep talking. Tell me about… tell me about Mischa and Nigel. Where does he live in London? Does she live with him? Do they have a line to the Queen?" He was smiling, and he wished he had a fireplace, because he imagined it would be cozy curled up with Hannibal in front of a fire. 

"Nigel, ironically, is a roughneck who would be much happier busting heads as a police officer than living in luxury in London," Hannibal reflected. "Mischa is equally as happy, as she can afford nearly anything she wants. Nigel and I both spoil her, although she is my especial favorite." Hannibal's strokes were unintentionally wandering over the back of Will's neck and down his shoulders as the shivering eased. "Nigel prefers partying, and has had a bit of a drug problem when he was younger. I think, though, meeting his current paramour has encouraged him to settle quite a bit." 

Come to think of it, Nigel had calmed entirely since meeting Adam Raki, and Mischa gladly reported to Hannibal that they were living together. He made a mental note to give Nigel a ring in the next few days and let him know what was going on. 

He had meant to tell Will more, but he could see from the evenness of Will's breathing that he'd finally drifted off to sleep. Leaning forward carefully, so as not to dislodge Will's head, Hannibal retrieved the copy of _Last of the Mohicans_ and turned to the first page, beginning to read.

_-_-_

"Alyssa!" Will was flailing around, skidding in the puddle of her blood as he took in the spread limbs of one of his closest friends. "Alyssa, no!" 

Her mouth was still moving, her throat broken and unable to make sound, but somehow, he knew what she was saying.

Her last text message. _Will, where are you? I think someone is follow--_

He watched his cell phone go flying, trying to catch it but watching it shatter on the pavement. Blood flowed into the cracks of the phone, then back out of the headphone jack, the charger port, everywhere. It came out in torrents, and it wasn't Alyssa's text message on the shattered screen, it was Hannibal's face.

"No!" He was flailing, trying to catch his balance, windmilling frantically.

"Will! Will!" 

He was being shaken, he could feel his teeth clicking but he couldn't stop. Suddenly he was awake, and Hannibal was shaking him and shouting his name. "Hannibal!"

Relief flooded the detective's face as he slumped back on the couch. He had been afraid that he wasn't going to be able to wake Will from the nightmare, and he was happy that he was waking up. "Will. You were dreaming."

"Fuck." He reached for the bourbon, and Hannibal passed him the bottle. He drank deeply, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "It was Alyssa. And then my phone, you were on my phone, and blood was pouring out of it, and--"

"Sssh." Hannibal took Will into his arms, and Will came willingly, shuddering as the nightmare's aftermath drained out of him. "I'm here, and I'm not harmed."

Will's grip on Hannibal tightened as his arms went around Hannibal's waist. He was craving contact, craving the reassuring physicality that he usually found walking the streets. Panic and fear were easily subsumed in carnality, and Will sought it from Hannibal.

Hannibal was shocked when Will's mouth pressed against his, and he brought a hand up to stroke Will's cheek and very gently pushed him away. "Will."

"Please, I want you. I got no right, I know, but God knows you're attractive as hell, and I know you felt the connection." His fingers tightened in the silk of Hannibal's pajamas, trying to pull himself closer. 

"Yes, I did. I do." He touched Will's face more freely, his fingertips rubbing over Will's lips. 

Will's tongue snaked out to lick them, but they were already gone. Instead, he tasted Hannibal on his skin. "Then--"

"Not tonight." He caught both of Will's wrists, kissed the back of his hands. "Not when you're half-drunk, half-high, and in deep psychological distress. If we are to do anything, I want all of you. Not just the broken and the wounded parts. I would like to know all of you, and I won't accept anything less." 

Will tried to break his hands free, but Hannibal was determined. He did, however, weaken his resolve enough to accept the second kiss Will pressed on his mouth. He devoured it; his hand left Will's wrists and both hands came up to his face. His thumbs stroked Will's cheeks as his tongue leisurely explored Will's taste, and Will was moaning softly in the back of his throat. 

The kiss broke, and Will was breathless. The tiny sparks he'd felt when they'd touched earlier had been fanned into a wildfire, and he had stopped shivering as heat blossomed in the pit of his belly. He panted softly, tongue licking his lips as he searched Hannibal's face for signs of giving in. 

There were none. His eyes promised things, but they were dark and hidden and shadowy things that he could only see hints of. Nebulous promises that would materialize later, on Hannibal's schedule or not at all. And he wanted those things. But all he could hear was a line from a movie floating in and out of his head; _relationships built on intense circumstances never last._

He wasn't even sure he wanted a damn relationship, with anyone, much less Count Lecter the whatever-eth. But the draw, the draw was there, and he wanted… well, what he wanted, he probably wasn't going to get tonight. But based on the kiss, it wouldn't be that long at all before he got it. 

He felt Hannibal shifting beside him, and he was drawn into the other man's lap. "Sssh," Hannibal murmured again, nosing little kisses along Will's jaw. "Go back to sleep if you can."

Even as he snuggled himself comfortably against Hannibal's chest, he had to say it. "This can't possibly be comfortable for you."

"You underestimate how much I enjoy your company, Will." Hannibal's chin rested against his temple. "If you have any more nightmares, I will be here for you." 

Will's grip tightened on Hannibal's pajama top, and then relaxed. Maybe with Hannibal here, they wouldn't come at all. "You don't have to get a hotel room, you can stay here." 

Hannibal gave Will a smile, and rubbed a thumb over his lips. "Or I could simply find a pet-friendly hotel and ask you if you'd like to stay the week," he pointed out. "It would be safer for you, at the least, because as I remember it, you are in the phone book. And your real name is going to be released on the police reports. You are welcome to hide out with me; I, at least, am unlisted." 

"Yeah, okay." Will realized Hannibal had a very good point. People were going to be knocking his door down left and right, and the last thing he wanted was his face plastered all over the newspapers. It was going to happen anyway, but maybe he could ride out the worst of it with Hannibal's protection. "You've got a roommate, Detective." 

"Hannibal," he scolded. "Now go to sleep, and we'll deal with the morning when it comes." Hannibal's hands rested on Will's shoulder and hip, and Will dragged an ancient quilt over his legs and Hannibal's. Hannibal adjusted the quilt so Will was covered, and petted his hair gently. 

"Okay." Will was uncomfortable with the idea of falling asleep on Hannibal, afraid of hurting him somehow, but Hannibal didn't seem to mind in the least. "If I get too heavy--"

"You're fine, William. Please, rest." He sighed softly, as he would at a recalcitrant child. "When Mischa would not sleep, I had to recite her poetry, in Lithuanian. Must I do the same to you?" He realized the answer was yes as soon as he said it; Will had not fallen to sleep before until Hannibal had been talking about his family, and he realized it was the sound of his voice that had lulled him off. 

Breathing deeply, Hannibal closed his eyes and started to recite _Jurate and Kastytis_ , one of his personal favorites about Kastytis the fisherman and Jurate, the sea-goddess who fell in love with the mortal man and earned the wrath of the gods--and Kastytis' death. 

Before he was able to finish the fourth stanza, Will was quietly breathing, his eyes closed and his hands tucked into the small of Hannibal's back. 

He could finish the poem tomorrow; he had a feeling there would be more nightmares to come. But he'd be there to take care of him, his Kastytis the fisherman. "Goodnight, Will."

THE END


End file.
